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Class Q L 79 / 
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Wild Animal 
Ways 

by 
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON 

M 

Author of 

"Wild Animals at Home," "Wild Animals 

I Have Known," Etc. 

WITH DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR 




Boston New York Chicago 

Houghton Mifflin Company 

s The Riverside Press, Cambridge / 



<\^ N 



*v 



Copyright, 1916, by 
Ernest Thompson Seton 

All rights reserved, including that of 

translation into foreign languages, 

including the Scandinavian 






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tor 

Preface 

When I look at the names of the animals whose 
stories are given here, I feel much as an artist might 
in looking at sundry portraits of his friends and 
ideals painted by himself. 

Some of these I personally knew. Some are 
composites, and are merely natural history in 
story form. Way-atcha and Foam are of the 
latter kind. 

Foam is an effort to show how the wild things 
instinctively treat themselves in sickness. They 
have their herbs, their purges, their sudorincs, their 
hot and cold baths, their mud baths, their fastings, 
their water sluicings, their massage, their rest cure, 
and their sun treatment. 

The final scene when the Razor-back utterly de- 
feated the Bear was witnessed and related to me 
long ago by a Michigan lumberman, whose name 
I cannot recall. The minor incidents are largely 
from personal observation of wild hogs in various 
parts of America. I am in hopes that some will 

iii 



Preface 

see the despised Razor-back in a more friendly 
light when they realize the strong and wise little 
soul that lurks behind those blinking eyes. 

Billy and Coaly-Bay are in the main true, and 
a recent letter from the West gives me new light 
on the history of the wild horse. The story had 
just appeared in Collier's Magazine, where the 
writer saw it. 

The letter runs as follows: 

"January 26, 1916. I, too, knew Coaly-Bay, the 
glorious creature. He began his struggles in the 
Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho, left through the 
Salmon River country straggling tales of his 
fierce resentment under the yoke, and escaped 
triumphantly at last to the plains in the south 

"I was sixteen then and it is six years ago. 

"Something, however, you failed to record. 
It is this: that before he escaped from the world of 
spur and lash, the world of compulsion, the world 
that denies to a horse an end in himself, he came 
to love one person — me, the woman who petted 
instead of saddled him, who gave him sugar in- 
stead of spurring him, who gloried in him because 
he dared assert that he belonged to himself. For 
I, too, was an outlaw. 

iv 



Preface 

"When I wandered joyfully through the ever- 
green labyrinths of the Florence Basin, sniffing like 
a hare or fox the damp spring smell of the earth, 
going far down the narrow, rock-walled canyons 
for the first wild orchids, Coaly-Bay came, too. I 
did not ride or drive him. He trotted beside me 
as might a dog. We were pals, equals, fellow 
rebels. I went with him where he could find the 
first young meadow grass, and he went with me 
where grew the first wild strawberries. As to- 
gether we glimpsed, far below, the green ribbon 
that was the Salmon River, or saw, far off, the 
snow attempting to cover the sinister blackness of 
the Buffalo Hump, we laughed at the stupidity of 
the world of man, who sought to drive things, to 
compel things, to master things, breeding hate and 
viciousness thereby; the stupidity of the world of men 
who never dreamed of the marvelous power of love! 
' "But they came between us, these men; and 
when Coaly-Bay broke the leg of one of them, I 
laughed. That day when they were going to 
crush his spirit with a bullet, I hated them! And 
when he escaped down those endless labyrinths, 
which we had threaded together so often, how I 
gloated! But later I wept, for he had left me to 
be an outlaw alone. 



Preface 

"Yes, always I shall love the memory of Coaly- 
Bay. He was a symbol of the eternal spirit of 
Revolt against the Spur of Oppression. My desire 
is to be as true to that spirit as he was, to fight 
the lash and spur, to bleed or starve rather than 
submit. " 



I gladly quote this letter because it interprets 
some others of my friends as well as Coaly-Bay. 
New York, 
February 27, 1916. 



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Contents 



PAG2 



L Coaly-Bay, The Outlaw Horse 

The Wilful Beauty 3 

The Bear Bait ......... 9 

His Destined End 12 

II. Foam, or The Life and Adventures of a 
Razor-Backed Hog 

The Mother 19 

Lizette and the Bear 23 

The Foundling 26 

Pig, Duck, and Lamb 27 

Foam as Defender 31 

A Bad Old Bear 35 

The Swamp 38 

Smell-power 39 

The Rattlesnake 41 

Wildwood Medicine 46 

Springtime . 50 

Grizel Seeks Her Fortune 52 

The Scratching Post 54 

The Lovers . 9 . 56 

vii 



Contents 

The Wildcat. . T . . 57 

The Pork-eating Bear ...... . 6$ 

Hill Billy Bogue 67 

The Hog Warrior and the Hounds ... 70 

Lizette and an Old Friend 72 

The Bear Claims Another Victim. . % , 75 

The Defeat of Hill BiUy 76 

The Day of Judgment 78 

HL "Way-Atcha, The Coon-Raccoon of Kil- 
de* Greek 

The Home-seekers 90 

The Home .... * 92 

Schooling the Children 94 

The Mysterious Warning 98 

The Hunters 101 

The Wayward Child 104 

A Merry Life on the Farm 107 

The Ancient Foe in 

The Blessed Hollow Tree 116 

IV. Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

Silly Billy 123 

The Professional Rough 127 

The Fiery Furnace and the Gold .... 134 



Viii 



I 

Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 

THE WILFUL BEAUTY 

IVE years ago in the Bit- 

terroot mountains of Idaho 

there was a beautiful little 

foal. His coat was bright 

bay; his legs, mane, and tail 

were glossy black — coal black 

and bright bay — so they 

named him Coaly-bay. 

Coaly-bay'' sounds like "Koli- 
bey," which is an Arab title of 
nobility, and those who saw the handsome colt, 
and did not . know how he came by the name, 
thought he must be of Arab blood. No doubt he 
was, in a faraway sense; just as all our best horses 
have Arab blood, and once in a while it seems to 
come out strong and show in every part of the 
creature, in his frame, his power, and his wild, free 
roving spirit. 




&1' 



Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 

Coaly-bay loved to race like the wind, he gloried 
in his speed, his tireless legs, and when careering 
with the herd of colts they met a fence or ditch, it 
was as natural to Coaly-bay to overleap it, as it 
was for the others to sheer off. 

So he grew up strong of limb, restless of spirit, 
and rebellious at any thought of restraint. Even 
the kindly curb of the hay -yard or the stable was 
unwelcome, and he soon showed that he would 
rather stand out all night in a driving storm than 
be locked in a comfortable stall where he had no 
vestige of the liberty he loved so well. 

He became very clever at dodging the horse 
wrangler whose job it was to bring the horseherd 
to the corral The very sight of that man set 
Coaly-bay agoing. He became what is known as 
a " Quit-the-bunch " — that is a horse of such inde- 
pendent mind that he will go his own way the mo- 
ment he does not like the way of the herd. 

So each month the colt became more set on 
living free, and more cunning in the means he 
took to win his way. Far down in his soul, too, 
there must have been a streak of cruelty, for he 
stuck at nothing and spared no one that seemed to 
stand between him and his one desire. 

When he was three years of age, just in the per- 
fection of his young strength and beauty, his real 







Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 



troubles began, for now Ins owner undertook to 
break him to ride. He was as tricky and vicious 
as he was handsome, and the first day's experience 
was a terrible battle between the horse-trainer and 
the beautiful colt. 

But the man was skilful. He knew how to ap- 
ply his power, and all the wild plunging, bucking, 
rearing, and rolling of the wild one had no desir- 
able result. With all his strength the horse was 
hopelessly helpless in the hands of the skilful 
horseman, and Coaly-bay was so far mastered at 
length that a good rider could use him. But each 
time the saddle went on, he made a new fight. 
After a few months of this the colt seemed to realize 
that it was useless to resist, it simply won for him 
lashings and spurrings, so he pretended to reform. 
For a week he was ridden each day and not once did 
he buck, but on the last day he came home lame. 

His owner turned him out to pasture. Three 
days later he seemed all right; he was caught and 
saddled. He did not buck, but within five minutes 
he went lame as before. Again he was turned out 
to pasture, and after a week, saddled, only to go 
lame again. 

His owner did not know what to think, whether 
the horse really had a lame leg or was only sham- 
ming, but he took the first chance to get rid of him, 








Coaly- Bay, the Outlaw Horse 

and though Coaly-bay was easily worth fifty dol- 
lars, he sold him for twenty-five. The new owner 
felt he had a bargain, but after being ridden half a 
^J^^% mile Coaly-bay went lame. The rider got off to 
«*-^\ ""^^wC/ examme ^ e f° ot > whereupon Coaly-bay broke away 
]/ • - ^U* an d galloped back to his old pasture. Here he was 
r liLy >, ^ %// J caught, and the new owner, being neither gentle 
^0>{ * nor sweet, applied spur without mercy, so that the 

f next twenty miles was covered in less than two hours 

tr ^^ on(i ir\r\ cimi «~it Inmonocp otvt-»qo i"on 



ft 



y* ' and no sign of lameness appeared. 
" Now they were at the ranch of this new owner. 

Coaly-bay was led from the door of the house to the 
pasture, limping all the way, and then turned out. 
He limped over to the other horses. On one side 
of the pasture was the garden of a neighbor. 
This man was very proud of his fine vegetables and 
had put a six-foot fence around the place. Yet the 
very night after Coaly-bay arrived, certain of the 
horses got into the garden somehow and did a great 
deal of damage. But they leaped out before day- 
light and no one saw them. 

The gardener was furious, but the ranchman 
stoutly maintained that it must have been some 
other horses, since his were behind a six-foot fence. 

Next night it happened again. The ranchman 
went out very early and saw all his horses in the 
pasture, with Coaly-bay behind them. His lame- 

6 



Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 



ness seemed worse now instead of better. In a few 
days, however, the horse was seen walking all 
right, so the ranchman's son caught him and tried 
to ride him. But this seemed too good a chance 
to lose; all his old wickedness returned to the horse; 
the boy was bucked off at once and hurt. The 
ranchman himself now leaped into the saddle; 
Coaly-bay bucked for ten minutes, but finding he 
could not throw the man, he tried to crush his leg 
against a post, but the rider guarded himself well. 
Coaly-bay reared and threw himself backward; 
the rider slipped off, the horse fell, jarring heavily, 
and before he could rise the man was in the saddle 
again. The horse now ran away, plunging and 
bucking; he stopped short, but the rider did not go 
over his head, so Coaly-bay turned, seized the man's 
foot in his teeth, and but for heavy blows on the 
nose would have torn him dreadfully. It was quite 
clear now that Coaly-bay was an " outlaw" — that 
is an incurably vicious horse. 

The saddle was jerked off, and he was driven, 
limping, into the pasture. 

The raids on the garden continued, and the two 
men began to quarrel over it. But to prove that 
his horses were not guilty the ranchman asked the 
gardener to sit up with him and watch. That 
night as the moon was brightly shining they saw, 



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Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Hofse 




not all the horses, but Coaly-bay, walk straight up 
to the garden fence — no sign of a limp now — easily 
leap over it, and proceed to gobble the finest 
things he could find. After they had made sure 
of his identity, the men ran forward. Coaly-bay 
cleared the fence like a Deer, lightly raced over the 
pasture to mix with the horseherd, and when the 
men came near him he had — oh, such an awful 
limp. 

"That settles it," said the rancher. "He's a 
fraud, but he's a beauty, and good stuff, too." 

"Yes, but it settles who took my garden truck," 
said the other. 

"Wall, I suppose so," was the answer; "but luk 
a here, neighbor, you ain't lost more'n ten dollars 
in truck. That horse is easily worth — a hundred. 
Give me twenty-five dollars, take the horse, an' 
call it square." 

"Not much I will," said the gardener. "I'm 
out twenty-five dollars' worth of truck; the horse 
ain't worth a cent more. I take him and call it 
even." 

And so the thing was settled. The ranchman 
said nothing about Coaly-bay being vicious as well 
as cunning, but the gardener found out, the very 
first time he tried to ride him, that the horse was as 
bad as he was beautiful. 

8 



Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 

Next day a sign appeared on the gardener's 
gate: 



FOR SALE 

First-class horse, sound 
and gentle. $10.00 



THE BEAR BAIT 



Now at this time a band of hunters came riding 
by. There were three mountaineers, two men/!/ 
from the city, and the writer of this story. The 
city men were going to hunt Bear. They had guns 
and everything needed for Bear-hunting, except 
bait. It is usual to buy some worthless horse or 
cow, drive it into the mountains where the Bears 
are, and kill it there. So seeing the sign up, the 
hunters called to the gardener: " Haven't you got a 
cheaper horse? " 

The gardener replied: "Look at him there, ain't 
he a beauty? You won't find a cheaper horse if 
you travel a thousand miles.' ' 

"We are looking for an old Bear-bait, and five 
dollars is our limit," replied the hunter. 

Horses were cheap and plentiful in that country; 
buyers were scarce. The gardener feared that 



\Ja 



j£J^S 



Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 




Coaly-bay would escape. "Wall, if that's the best 
you can do, he's yourn." 

The hunter handed him five dollars, then said: 

"Now, stranger, bargain's settled. Will you 
tell me why you sell this fine horse for five dollars? " 

"Mighty simple. He can't be rode. He's dead 
lame when he's going your way and sound as a dol- 
lar going his own; no fence in the country can hold 
him; he's a dangerous outlaw. He's wickeder nor 
old Nick." 

"Well, he's an almighty handsome Bear-bait," 
and the hunters rode on. 

Coaly-bay was driven with the packhorses, and 
limped dreadfully on the trail. Once or twice he 
tried to go back, but he was easily turned by the 
men behind him. His limp grew worse, and toward 
night it was painful to see him. 

The leading guide remarked: "That thar limp 
ain't no fake. He's got some deep-seated trouble. 3 

Day after day the hunters rode farther into the 
mountains, driving the horses along and hobbling 
them at night. Coaly-bay went with the rest, 
limping along, tossing his head and his long splen- 
did mane at every step. One of the hunters tried 
to ride him and nearly lost his life, for the horse 
seemed possessed of a demon as soon as the man 
was on his back. 



xo 



Coaly w Bay, the Outlaw Hotse 



The road grew harder as it rose. A very bad bog 
had to be crossed one day. Several horses were 
mired in it, and as the men rushed to the rescue, 
Coaly-bay saw his chance of escape. He wheeled 
in a moment and turned himself from a limping, 
low-headed, sorry, bad-eyed creature into a high- 
spirited horse. Head and tail aloft now, shaking 
their black streamers in the wind, he gave a joyous 
neigh, and, without a trace of lameness, dashed for 
his home one hundred miles away, threading each 
narrow trail with perfect certainty, though he had 
seen them but once before, and in a few minutes he 
had steamed away from their sight. 

The men were furious, but one of them, saying 
not a word, leaped on his horse — to do what? Fol- 
low that free ranging racer? Sheer folly. Oh, 
no ! — he knew a better plan. He knew the country. 
Two miles around by the trail, half a mile by the 
rough cut-off that he took, was Panther Gap. The 
runaway must pass through that, and Coaly-bay 
raced down the trail to rind the guide below await- 
ing him. Tossing his head with anger, he wheeled 
on up the trail again, and within a few yards recov- 
ered his monotonous limp and his evil expression. 
He was driven into camp, and there he vented his 
rage by kicking in the ribs of a harmless little 
packhorse. 

xx 





Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 




HIS DESTINED END 

This was Bear country, and the hunters resolved 
to end his dangerous pranks and make him useful 
for once. They dared not catch him, it was not 
really safe to go near him, but two of the guides 
drove him to a distant glade where Bears abounded. 
A thrill of pity came over me as I saw that beautiful 
untamable creature going away with his imitation 
limp. 

" Ain't you coming along?" called the guide. 

"No, I don't want to see him die," was the 
answer. Then as the tossing head was disap- 
pearing I called: "Say, fellows, I wish you would 
bring me that mane and tail when you come 
back!" 

Fifteen minutes later a distant rifle crack was 
eard, and in my mind's eye I saw that proud head 
and those superb limbs, robbed of their sustaining 
indomitable spirit, falling flat and limp — to suffer 
the unsightly end of fleshly things. Poor Coaly- 
bay; he would not bear the yoke. Rebellious to 
the end, he had fought against the fate of all his 
kind. It seemed to me the spirit of an Eagle or a 
Wolf it was that dwelt behind those full bright eyes 
-that ordered all his wayward life. 
I tried to put the tragic finish out of mind, and 

12 



Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 



had not long to battle with the thought; not even 
one short hour, for the men came back. 

Down the long trail to the west they had driven 
him; there was no chance for him to turn aside. 
He must go on, and the men behind felt safe in 
that. 

Farther away from his old home on the Bitter- 
root Riv^r he had gone each time he journeyed. 
And now he had passed the high divide and was 
keeping the narrow trail that leads to the valley of 
Bears and on to Salmon River, and still away to the 
open wild Columbian Plains, limping sadly as 
though he knew. His glossy hide flashed back the 
golden sunlight, still richer than it fell, and the men 
behind followed like hangmen in the death train 
of a nobleman condemned — down the narrow trail 
till it opened into a little beaver meadow, with 
rank rich grass, a lovely mountain stream and 
winding Bear paths up and down the waterside. 

" Guess this'll do," said the older man. "Well, 
here goes for a sure death or a clean miss," said the 
other confidently, and, waiting till the limper was 
out in the middle of the meadow, he gave a short, 
sharp whistle. Instantly Coaly-bay was alert. 
He swung and faced his tormentors, his noble head 
erect, his nostrils flaring; a picture of horse beauty 
—yes, of horse perfection. 

*3 




Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 




The rifle was levelled, the very brain its mark, 
just on the cross line of the eyes and ears, that 
meant sure — sudden, painless death. 

The rifle cracked. The great horse wheeled and 
dashed away. It was sudden death or miss — and 
the marksman missed. 

Away went the wild horse at his famous best, 
not for his eastern home, but down the unknown 
western trail, away and away; the pine woods hid 
him from the view, and left behind was the rifleman 
vainly trying to force the empty cartridge from his 
gun. 

Down that trail with an inborn certainty he went, 

and on through the pines, then leaped a great bog, 

and splashed an hour later through the limpid 

Clearwater and on, responsive to some unknown 

^ guide that subtly called him from the farther west. 

•V* And so he went till the dwindling pines gave place 

^Ja. to scrubby cedars and these in turn were mixed 

J with sage, and onward still, till the faraway flat 

a plains of Salmon River were about him, and ever 

' 'on, tireless as it seemed, he went, and crossed the 

canyon of the mighty Snake, and up again to the 

high wild plains where the wire fence still is not, 

and on, beyond the Buffalo Hump, till moving 

specks on the far horizon caught his eager eyes, 

and coming on and near, they moved and rushed 

14 



Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Horse 

aside to wheel and face about He lifted up his 
voice and called to them, the long shrill neigh of his 
kindred when they bugled to each other on the far 
Chaldean plain; and back their answer came. 
This way and that they wheeled and sped and car- 
acoled, and Coaly-bay drew nearer, called and gave 
the countersigns Ins kindred know, till this they 
were assured — he was their kind, he was of the wild 
free blood that man had never tamed. And when 
the night came down on the purpling plain his 
place was in the herd as one who after many a long 
hard journey in the dark had found his home. 

There you may see him yet, for still his strength 
endures, and his beauty is not less. The riders tell 
me they have seen him many times by Cedra. He 
is swift and strong among the swift ones, but it is 
that flowing mane and tail that mark him chiefly 
from afar. 

There on the wild free plains of sage he lives: 
the stormwind smites his glossy coat at night and 
the winter snows are driven hard on him at times; 
the Wolves are there to harry all the weak ones of 
the herd, and in the spring the mighty Grizzly, too, 
may come to claim his toll. There are no luscious 
pastures made by man, no grain-foods; nothing 
but the wild hard hay, the wind and the open plains, 
but here at last he found the thing he craved — the 

IS 




Coaly-Bay, the Outlaw Hotse 

one worth all the rest. Long may he roam — this 
is my wish, and this — that I may see him once again 
in all the glory of his speed with his black mane on 
the wind, the spur-galls gone from his flanks, and 
in his eye the blazing light that grew in his far-off 
forebears' eyes as they spurned Arabian plains to 
leave behind the racing wild beast and the fleet 
gazelle — yes, too, the driving sandstorm that over- 
whelmed the rest, but strove in vain on the dusty 
wake of the Desert's highest born. 




1 



16 



n 

Foam, or The Life and Adventures of 
a Razor-Backed Hog 

THE MOTHER 

HE was just an ordinary Razor- 
backed Hog in the woods of South 
Virginia, long-legged and long- 
snouted, strong in shoulder, hard 
and tight in the flanks, and equipped 
with sharp white tusks that, though 
short, were long enough to inspire terror in any dog 
that dared to try her mettle. She roamed in the 
glades by Prunty's during summer, or in winter, 
when food was scarce, rendered a half-hearted and 
mercenary allegiance to the Prunty barnyard 
which furnished a sort of mart, where many differ- 
ent races met to profit by the garnered stores or 
waste. 

The early spring had passed. Bright summer 
had begun; redbird and robin were stating it in set 

19 





Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 




terms, while wind-root and Mayflower were posting 
the fact on their low banks, and the Razor-back 
wandered from under the barn, blinking her pale- 
lashed eyes. Pensively nosing the ground, she 
passed by untouched some corn that she certainly 
smelled, and, a day before, would have gobbled. 
But she was uneasy and nosed about till she reached 
the "branch" where she drank deeply. Still 
swinging slowly, she crossed the stream, and wan- 
dered into the woods. She listened hard, and looked 
back once or twice, then changed her course, 
crossed the brook twice more — yes, that is their 
way when they shun pursuit — and wandered on 
till, far in the shades, she reached an upturned tree 
root. She had been there before, and the layer of 
grass and leaves showed the beginnings of a bed. 
After sniffing it over, she set about gathering more 
grass, stopping like a statue occasionally when 
some strange sound was wind-borne to her ears. 
Once or twice she moved away, but each time re- 
turned to lie down uneasily in the nest she had 
prepared. 

Oh Mother, All-mother Nature that lays such 
heavy hand upon maternity in towns, where help 
is near! How kind thou art to the wildwood 
beast that all alone must face the ordeal. How 
doubly blest is she, in strength and soon deliver- 



20 






Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog: 

ance! And when the morning sun arose, it peeped 
a rosy peep for a moment under the old gnarled 
roof-root, to see a brood of cowering pink-nosed 
piglets, with their mother lying as a living barrier 
against the outside world. 

Young life is always beautiful. And those who 
picture pigs as evil passions, dirt and lust expressed 
in flesh would have marvelled to see the baby beauty 
of that brood and the sweet perfection of the 
mother's love. She had no eyes for the pretty 
rounded forms or soft clear tints, but she loved 
them with her full returning force, and when, with 
their growing strength and need for food, they 
nosed and nudged and mouthed her body for their 
natural sustenance, that double row of noselets 
gave double thrills of mother joy and dear content. 
During the time when they could not follow, she 
grudged the moments when she must slip away to 
find the needful food and drink, nor went beyond 
the reach of their slightest call. 

Her life all winter had centred in the barnyard. 
But the wish to keep her young ones hidden made 
her lead them deeper into the woods when they be- 
gan to run. And the sportive, rollicking crew, bor- 
ing their little gimlet noses into everything near 
and soft, soon grew in vigor and acquired a won- 
derful knowledge of woodland smells. There were 

21 



Foam-— A Razor-Backed Hog 




hosts of things to eat in the Maytime woods. 
Every little early flower has a bulbous root that is a 
store of food. Every berry that follows the flower 
is food. And when it so falls out that these be 
poisonous, and such there be, the good All-mother 
has put in it a nasty little smell, a funny tang, or a 
prickle that sounds a warning to the wood-wise pig 
and makes it unpleasant to the ever-moving finger- 
tipped inquiring noses of the rollicking grunting 
piggy band. These were the things the mother 
knew. These were the things the young ones 
learned by watching and smelling. One of them, a 
lively youngster in reddish hair, found a new sen- 
sation. They were not eating yet, but the mother 
was rooting and eating all day, and the youngsters 
rushed to smell each new place that she upheaved. 
Grubs she welcomed as a superior kind of roots, 
and the children sniffed approval. Then a queer, 
broad, yellow-banded, humming, flying thing 
dropped down on a leaf near Redhead's nose. He 
poked it with his nose finger-tip. And then it 
did — it did — something he could not understand, 
but oh, how it hurt! He gave a little "Wowk" 
and ran to his mother. His tiny bristles stood up 
and he chopped his little foxlike jaws till they 
foamed, and the white froth flecked his cheeks. It 
was a sun and night before little Foamy Chops had 

22 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

got over it, but it did him no serious harm, and he 
remembered. 

They had been running a week or more in the 
woods when something happened to show how the 
mother's mind was changed by her family. Loud 
rumbling noises were heard not far ahead, and now 
they were coming near. Mother understood them 
quite well — the sounds of men approaching. She 
had long known such sounds in the barnyard days 
as promise of food, but now she thought of her 
brood. It might mean danger to them, and she 
turned about, giving a low "Woof" that somehow 
struck terror into the hearts of the young ones. 
They had never heard that before, and when she 
wheeled and walked quickly away, the brood went 
scrambling behind her in a long silent troop, with 
Foamy Chops at his mother's tail. 

This was a small incident, but it was a turning 
point, for thenceforth the mother and her brood had 
broken with the barnyard and its folk. 

LIZETTE AND THE BEAR 

Lizette Prunty was a big girl now, she was thir- 
teen and not afraid to go far alone in the hills. 
June with its sweet alluring strawberries was in the 
woods, and Lizette went afield. How is it that the 
berries just ahead are always bigger, riper, and more 

23 





Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

plentiful than those around? It is so, and she kept 
hurrying on till farther from home than ever before! 
Then a log-cock hammered on a hollow tree. My! 
How loud it was, and Lizette paused open-mouthed. 
Then, as she harkened, a different sound was heard, 
a loud " sniff, sniff." The brushwood swayed and 
out there stepped a huge black Bear. 

At the little frightened "Oh!" the Bear stopped, 
reared up to his great height, and stood there gazing 
and letting off, at each few seconds, a loud, far- 
reaching "Woof. " Poor Lizette was terror stricken. 
She could neither speak nor run. She simply stood 
and gazed. So did the Bear. 

Then another noise arose, a deep grunt and a lot 
of little grunties. "A whole pack of Bears," 
thought poor Lizette, but she could not move. 
She merely gazed toward the new sounds. So did 
the Bear. 

This time when the tall grass parted it was to 
show, not a lot of Bears, but the old Razor-back 
long missing from the barnyard, and her lively 
grunting brood. 

Very rarely does a Bear molest a child, very 
rarely does he miss a chance for pork. The black 
monster dropped on all fours and charged at the 
mother and her brood. 

The fierce defiant war-grunts of the mother might 

24 



Foam — A Razof-Backed Hog: 

have struck terror into any but a big black Bear, 
for the Razor-back had sharp tusks and mighty 
jaws, and sturdy legs, and flanks all armored well 
with double hide and bristle thatch, and — the heart 
of a devoted mother. 

She stood her ground and faced the foe, while 
the little ones, uttering cries of fear, crowded 
against her sides or hid behind her. Only little 
Foamy stood with his head aloft to watch the awful 
enemy. 

Even a Bear must be impressed when a Razor- 
back is out in fighting mood to save her young, and 
he walked around the group while she ever turned 
to face him. She had backed into a protecting 
bush that made any but front attack impossible. 
And the Bear walked this way and that, without 
seeing any good chance to close, for the mother al- 
ways fronted him, and those champing armed jaws 
were not to be lightly faced. 

Then the Bear made a short charge and stopped. 
The mother, ever fronting, saw him pause, and now 
she charged. She ripped his arm and bit the other 
paw, but he was on her now, and in a rough and 
tumble the Bear had every chance. He stunned 
her with a blow, he raked her sides, he crunched her 
leg. He gripped her in a fierce embrace that robbed 
her of all fighting breath, while his hind claws 

25 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog; 

ripped her open, and as they struggled in the final 
throe Lizette recovered use of sense and limb; she 
turned and fled for home. 




THE FOUNDLING 

" Oh, father it was awful ! Just down by Kogar's 
Creek. I can take you there in half an hour. ,, 

So father came with dog and gun. Lizette was 
guide, and in a little while they were among the 
strawberry tracts of Kogar's Creek. Turkey- 
buzzards were sailing over the place as they drew 
near. They found the very spot. There lay the 
mother Razor-back, torn and partly devoured. 
Under her body and half hidden about were the 
young, crushed, each of them, by one blow of that 
cruel mighty paw. 

Prunty was uttering mannish grunts and growls 
at each fresh discovery, Lizette was weeping, when 
the dog broke into a tirade at something far under 
the bush; and bravely facing him there showed a 
little red-headed piglet, chopping with his tiny jaws 
till the foam flew, and squeaking out defiance to 
the new terror. 

" Hello, there's one escaped!" exclaimed father. 

"Isn't he sassy?" So while little Foamy was 

Jf t heroically facing the dog, the father reached 

through the brush from behind, and seizing the 

26 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

piggie by the hind leg, he lifted him protesting, 
squealing, and champing, to drop him into his game 
bag. 

"Poor little chap, see how his nose is skinned! 
He must be hungry. I'm afraid he's too young to 
live." 

"Oh, do let me have him, Father; I'll feed him," 
and so Lizette's moral claim to Foamy was legalized 
on the spot. 

Prunty had brought a huge bear trap to the 
place, and now he set it by the body of the victim. 
But all it ever caught there was an unlucky turkey- 
buzzard. The Kogar's Creek Bear was too cunning 
to be taken by such means: and buzzards, insects, 
and kindly flowers wiped out all tragic records on 
that spot. 

PIG, DUCK, AND LAMB 

Poor little Foamy Chops. He was so hungry, 
so forlorn, and his nose was so sore where the Bear 
had scratched him. He did not know that Lizette 
was his friend, and he champed his little harmless 
jaws at her in defiance when she put him in the box 
that was to take the place of all outdoors for him. 
She washed his wounded nose. She brought him 
some warm milk in a saucer, but he did not under- 
stand it that way. Hours went by and still he 

21 



2k_ ^j£W- 



<*l* 



Foam— A Razof-Backed Hog 

crouched in dull, motionless despair. Then Liz- 
ette's own nurse came with a feeding bottle. Foam 
kicked, squealed, and champed his jaws, but strong 
hands wrapped him up in a cloth. The bottle 
feeder was put to his open mouth. It was warm 
and sweet. He was oh! so hungry now! He could 
no more help sucking than any other baby could, 
and when the bottle was empty, he slept the long 
sweet sleep he so much needed. 

When you help some one it always makes you 
love that some one very much; so of course Lizette 
was now devoted to little Foam; but he knew her 
only as a big dangerous thing, and hated her. Yet 
not for long. He was an intelligent little Razor- 
back; and before his tail had the beginning of 
a curl he learned that "Lizette" meant "food," so 
he rose each time to meet her. Next he found he 
could bring Lizette — that is, food — if he squealed, 
and thenceforth his daily practice developed a 
mighty voice. 

In a week his shyness was gone. He was now 
transferred to a stall in the stable. In a month he 
was tame as a cat and loved to have his back 
scratched, and the large wound on his nose was 
healed, though it left an ugly scar. 

Then two companions entered his life, a duck and 
a lamb, strange creatures that Foam inspected nar- 

*8 



5^** 



Foam — A Razot-Backed Hog 

rowly out of his white-rimmed eyes, with distrust Z - ^^ 

and a little jealousy. But they proved pleasant ^ \ ^^ 

persons to sleep with; they kept him so warm. /" J 

And soon he devised means of enjoying them as V *^ f 

playthings; for the lamb's tail was long and pull- If"^ 

able, and the duck could be tossed over his back "T2^%£5& 

by a well-timed "root!" 

The box stall was now too small, but a fenced-in^ 
yard gave ample runway. Here in the tall weeds 
little Foam would root and race, or tease his play- 
mates, or hide from his foster-mother. Yes, many 
a time when she came and called she had no re- 
sponse; then carefully, anxiously searching about 
she would come on the little rascal hiding behind 
some weeds. Knowing now that he was discov- 
ered, he would dash forth grunting hilariously at 
every bound, circling about like a puppy, dodging 
away when she tried to touch him, but at last when 
tired of the flirtation he would surrender on the 
understanding that his back was to be scratched. 

Many a circus has shown the wondering world a 
learned pig, a creature of super-animal intelligence, 
and yet we say of a dull person, "He is as stupid as 
a pig," which proves merely that pigs vary vastly. 
Many are stupid, but there are great possibilities 
in the race; some may be in the very front rank of 
animal intelligence. The lowest in the scale of 

29 






\ 



Foam — A Razot-Backed Hog 

pigs is the fat porker of the thoroughbred farm. 

The highest is the wild Razor-back, who lives by 

his wits. And soon it was clear that Foam was 

^^^. high in his class. He was a very brainy little pig. 

V /"' '"*%* _ But he developed also a sense of humor, and a real 
S^JK && affection for Lizette. 

V S9\ r\ v ^ ^ e snrm whistle which her father had taught 
y, ' > ' */$ her to make with her ringers in her teeth, he would 
?»V J '< come racing across the garden — that is, he would 
j ^^/ i come, unless that happened to be his funny day, 

when, out of sheer caprice, he would hide and watch 
the search. 

One day Lizette was blacking her shoes with 
some wonderful French polish that dried quite 
shiny. It happened to be Foam's day to seek for 
unusual notice. He tumbled the lamb on top of 
the duck, ran three times around Lizette, then 
raised himself on his hind legs and put both front 
feet on the chair beside Lizette's foot, uttering 
meanwhile a short whining grunt which was his 
way of saying, "Please give me some!" Then 
Lizette responded in an unexpected way: she painted 
his front feet with the French blacking, which 
dried in a minute, and Foam's pale pinky hoofs 
were made a splendid shining black. The opera- 
tion had been pleasantly ticklesome, and Foam 
blinked his eyes, but did not move till it was over. 

30 



Foam — A Razof-Backed Hog: 

Then he gravely smelled his right foot, and his 
left foot, and grunted again. It was all new to 
him, and he didn't just know what to make of it; 
but he let it pass. It was not long before the wear 
and tear of his wearing, tearsome life spoiled all his 
French polish, and next time Lizette got out her 
brush and blacking Foam was there to sniff that 
queer smell and offer his hoofs again for treatment. 
The sensation must have pleased him, for he gravely 
stood till the operation was done, and thenceforth 
every blackening time he came and held his feet 
for their morning shine. 

FOAM AS DEFENDER 

Has a pig a conscience? What do you mean by 
conscience? If it means a realization that one is 
breaking a law, and that it will bring punishment 
and that a continuation will surely pile up harder 
punishment, then animals have consciences in pro- 
portion to their brains. And Foam, being born with 
ample wits, had judge and jury, accuser and witness, 
in his own heart when he himself was criminal. 

He had been forbidden to tease the lamb, who was 
a harmless woolly fool, and the duck, who was worse. 
Scolding and switching were things he understood, 
and because they were finally associated with teas- 
ing his companions, he learned that 

3i 




«S£ 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

the last delightful pleasures must be classed as 
crime. More than once when he was riotously 
chasing Muff or tumbling Fluff into the buttermilk, 
his mistress, without showing herself or speaking, 
merely gave a short whistle, the effect of which was 
to send a guilty-looking little pig to hide in the 
bushes. Surely he was conscience-stricken. 

Now it happened one morning that Lizette looked 

from her window over the garden and saw Foam 

standing very still, with his head low and sidewise, 

his eyes blinking, the very tip of his tail alone 

twisting — just his attitude when planning some 

mischief. She was about to use her whistle, but 

waited a moment to be sure. The lamb was lying 

under the tiny rainshed in a sort of dull somnolence. 

Suddenly the duck said "Quack," and ran from the 

grass to cower beside the lamb. The latter gave a 

start and blew its nose. Then out of the tall weeds 

there dashed a lumbering, wolfish puppy dog, 

breaking into a volley of glorious "yaps" as he 

•*^5 \, ^ charged on the helpless duckling. What fun it 

<%Jk ^ was! And the lamb, too, was so frightened that 

li *7** \ the valiant puppy assailed it without fear. 

J A a "Yap, yap, yap!" How brave a dog can be 

l\^\ $ '/.when his victim runs or is helpless! The duck 

k* <* % * %v quacked, the lamb gave a bleat of terror, 

i jfcTt *" ^» « $N* and the cur, intoxicated by sue- 



SV 



Q*X 




Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

cess and hankering for the highest glories known 
to his kind, rushed on the duckling, tore off mouth- 
ful after mouthful of feathers from his back, 
and would in a little while have rended him in 
pieces. But another sound was heard, the short 
hoarse " Gruff, gruff, gruff" sounds that mean 
a warpath pig. We call them grunts, because 
made by a pig, but the very same sounds uttered by 
a Leopard are called short roars, and these were 
what came naturally from Foam as he bounded into 
the scene. Every bristle on his back was erect, his 
little eyes were twinkling with green light. His 
jaws, now armed with small but sharp and growing 
tusks, were chopping the malignant "chop, chop" 
that flecks the face with foam, proclaims the war- 
lust, and lets the wise ones know that the slumber- 
ing wild beast deep inside is roused. Not love of 
the duck, I fear, but the urge of deep-laid ancient 
hate of the Wolf, was on him: "a Wolf was raiding 
his home place." The spirit of a valiant battling 
race was peeping from those steadfast eyes. Race 
memories of ancestral fights boiled in his blood. 
Foam charged the dog. 

Was ever bully more surprised? Gleefully the 
puppy had clutched the duckling's wing to drag 
him forth, when the little avalanche of red rage pig 
was on him, and the heave that struck his ribs had 

33 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 




pins in it; it tumbled him heels over head, scratched 
and even bleeding. His yaps of glorious victory, 
were changed into howls and yelps of dire defeat. 
Foam was on him again. The cur sought to escape; 
limping, howling through a mouthful of plundered 
feathers, he raced around the shed with Foam be- 
hind, then out the door, and through the weeds. A 
cur with a tail all tin-bedecked went never more 
loudly or more fast, and where or how he cleared 
the fence was almost overquick for certain seeing, 
and whence he came, or whither he went, was far 
from sure — only this: that his yelping died away in 
the woods and no more was seen of him. 

Lizette and her father bo th were on hand. Their 
dumb astonishment at the unexpected quality dis- 
covered in the little Razor-back was followed by wild 
hilarity at the discomfort of the cur, and his ignomin- 
ious flight before the roused and valorous Foam. 

They went into the garden, and the pig came run- 
ning to them. Lizette was a little in awe of him 
at first, but he was now no longer a righting demon, 
just a funny rollicking little Razor-back, and when 
she wondered what he would do next, and what 
^"V* she should do, he held up both his feet on a bench 
that she might give them their morning coat of 
polish, and stuck his nose so tight between them 
that she gave that a coat of blacking, too. 



34 



Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog 

Lizette maintains that Foam ceased teasing the 
lamb and the duck from that time. He certainly 
ceased soon after, for the duck was grown up and 
soon waddled off to join his web-footed kinsmen on 
the pool, and he and the lamb parted company 
in an unexpected manner. 

A BAD OLD BEAR 

Just as there are rogues among Elephants, idlers 
among Beavers, and mangy man-eaters among 
Tigers, so there are outlaws among Bears — creatures 
at war with all the world; perverted brutes that 
find pleasure chiefly in destruction, making them- 
selves known by their evil deeds, and in the end 
making enemies strong enough to turn and rend 
them. The Kogar's Creek Bear was one of these 
cruel ones. So far as any one knows he never had 
any family of his own, but roamed into the Kogar's 
Creek woods probably because his own kind drove 
him out of their own country in the mountains. So 
he drifted into Mayo Valley, where Bears were 
scarce, and wandered about doing all the mischief 
he could, smashing down fences, little sheds, or field 
crops that he could not eat, for the pleasure of 
destroying. Most Bears eat chiefly vegetable food, 
preferring berries and roots; some Bears eat a little 
of all kinds, but Kogar's had such a perverted taste 

35 



% 




V^Sf^^ 




Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 

that all he sought was flesh. Calf's flesh he loved, 
but he would not dream of facing a cow, much 
less a bull. He delighted in robbing birds' nests, 
because it was so easy: he would work half a day at 
a hole to get at a family of Flying Squirrels. At 
first almost any kind of flesh suited him; and he had 
eaten more than one little baby Bear that chanced 
to stray from its mother. But his favorite food 
was pork. He would go a long way for a porker, 
and when he caught it, he would keep it alive as 
long as possible for the pleasure of hearing it squeal. 
Of course he took only little ones that were un- 
protected, and it was a great surprise to him that 
day when Foam's mother made such a fight. He 
had always thought that pigs of that size were easy 
game. He took revenge on the little ones, and he 
growled and limped for many a day after the affair. 
It kept him away from Razor-backs and he preyed 
on little Rabbits in their nests, and such things as 
could not defend themselves. But his wounds 
healed, he forgot the lesson of that day, and longed 
for a feast of pork. 

^..^ A wonderfully keen nose had the Kogar's Bear. 

* v \wW The wind was a wireless laden with stories for him, 

,-?^J^\*\ and it needed but a little study to discover some 

f. u Mgkft\ special message, then a following up to reap the 

t i -*& * 



/ y 



! % ft 

- 4 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 



He was not far from Prunty's when the soft breeze 
rippling through the dawn woods brought to him 
the sweet alluring smell of pig, and he followed it, 
swinging his black head as he sifted out the invisible 
trail from others on the wind. 

Marvellously silent is a Bear going through the 
woods, the biggest, bulkiest of them pass like shad- 
ows, and Kogar's reached the Prunty homestead 
swiftly and noiselessly, led at last to the little pad- 
dock where Foam, the author of the guiding smell, 
was sleeping with his head across the woolly back-i.pf: ' 
of the lamb. ' (, 

After a brief survey of the fence the Bear, finding 
no opening, proceeded to climb over. But it was 
not meant for such a bulk of flesh ; the paling swayed, p 
yielded, and fell, and the Bear was in the paddock. 

If Foam had been slower, or the lamb had been 
quicker, everything would have been different. 
The Bear rushed forward, Foam darted aside, the 
lamb sat still, and a heavy blow from the Bear's 
paw put an end to its chance of ever moving just as 
Foam disappeared through the hole in the fence 
and was lost to sight in the thicket. 

The Bear's march was soundless indeed, but the 
crack of the fence, the bleat of the lamb, the rush 
of that charge, the scared but defiant snort, snort, 
snort of Foam as he rushed away, made noise enough 

37 




% 



Foam — A Razor^Backed Hog 

to rouse the farmhouse, for it was in truth just on 
their rousing time, and the farmer peered forth to 
see a big black Bear scramble over the fence with 
the lamb in his jaws. 

Then was there a great noise, shouting for dogs, 
holloaing for men, and Prunty, with the ready rifle 
in hand, dashed into the woods after the Bear. 

How slowly a caged Bear seems to hulk around, 
how little does it let us know the speed of a wild, 
free Bear on rugged ground. The brambles, rocks, 
and benches seemed designed to hinder the dogs, 
but the Bear passed swiftly on. Then the broad 
expanse of Kogar's Creek was reached, the Bear 
launched forth to swim across. The strong stream 
bore him swiftly down. It was pleasant to ride the 
flood and see the banks go slipping behind him, so 
lazily he rode, till the hounds' loud baying was faint 
in the distance, before he paddled out on the other 
side. And the dogs when they came to the spot 
were baffled, nor did a search of the other bank shed 
any light on the mystery. 

Far back on the trail they found the body of the 
lamb. 

THE SWAMP 

It was sport for the men and fierce joy for the 
dogs. Lizette alone seemed to suffer all the horror 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 



and loss. She searched the little paddock in vain, 
then whistled and whistled. 

She followed the trail of the hunters as far as she 
could, and then at the edge of a thick swamp she 
stopped. She was all alone. The swamp was 
open water or mud; it seemed foolish to go on, so 
she listened a minute, then gave two or three sharp 
whistled blasts. A soggy noise was heard, a splash- ^ 
ing that gave her the creeps, it sounded so Bearlike, "[i)^ 1 *- 
Then a grunt, and there appeared a muddy beast 
of no particular shape, but surely at one end were 
two small blinking eyes and from somewhere be- 
neath them a friendly sounding grunt. Yes, 
surely it was, no — yes, now she was sure, for the 
wanderer had shaken off most of the mud and was 
upreared, holding his two forefeet on the log to 
have his hoofs polished; and they needed it as never 
before, nor was he quite content till Lizette had 
taken a stick and carried out their ancient under- 
standing by scratching his muddy back. 

SMELL-POWER 

Only the animal man with a nose can understand 
the masterfulness of smells, how through the mem- 
ory they can dominate the brain, and without re- 
gard to the smell itself or anything but the mem- 
ories, be things of joy or pain or fear. Foam had 

39 




Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog 

nearly forgotten his early days and his mother's 
death, but his nose had not, and the smell of Bear 
had brought it back, and driven him forth in a ter- 
ror stampede. 

That was why he had heard without heeding the 
old, familiar whistle call. 

But the fear was over now; therein lies courage, 
not to be without fear, but to overcome it. And 
Foam rioted around, circling full tilt through the 
bushes around Lizette, stopping short and stock- 
still in the pathway, head down, eyes twinkling, 
till Lizette made a pass at him with a stick. Then 
away he went, careering, pirouetting, and snorting 
the little joy snorts that in pig talk stand for "Ha! 
ha! ha!" 

Thus they neared the house, when all at once the 
merry pig was gone. Foam stood like a pointer at 
a certain spot. His bristles rose, his eyes snapped 
green, and his jaws, well armed already, were champ- 
ing till they foamed. Lizette came near to stroke 
him; he stepped aside, still champing, and now she 
saw and understood: they were crossing the fresh 
trail of the Bear; that terrible odour was on it. 

But — and this escaped Lizette at the time — the 
actions of Foam now no longer told of fear; that he 
had overcome: this pose, his deep-voiced "woof," 
his menacing tusks, his green-lit eyes, though he 

40 



Foam — A Razot-Backed Hog 

was but half grown, were the signs of a fighting 
Boar. She little guessed how much the spirit in 
him yet might mean to her. Yes, ere two moons 
had waned her very life indeed was doomed in ab- 
sence of all human help to rest in keeping of that 
valiant little beast, protected only by the two small 
ivory knives he bore, and the heart that never found 
in fear its guide. 



THE RATTLESNAKE 

October is summer still in South Virginia; sum- 
mer with just a small poetic touch of red-leaf time, 
and Lizette, full of romantic dreams, with little 
daring hopes of some adventure, too, had gone up 
the Kogar's Creek to a lonely place to swim in the 
sluggish bend. She was safe from any intrusion, so 
did not hesitate to strip and plunge, rejoicing in the 
cooling water, as only youth in perfect health 
can do when set in a perfect time. Then she swam 
to the central sandbar and dug her pink toes into 
the sand as she courted the searching sunbeams on 
her back. 

Satisfied at length, she plunged to swim across 
to the low point that was the only landing place, and 
served as a dressing-room. She was halfway over 
when she saw a sight that chilled her blood. There 
coiled on her snowy clothes with head upright, 




Foam-— A Razot-Backed Hog 

regardant, menacing, was a Banded Rattlesnake, 
the terror of the mountains, at home in woods or on 
the water. 

It was with sinking heart and trembling limbs 
that Lizette swam back and landed again on the 
sandbar. 

Now what? A boy would have sought for stones 
and pelted the reptile away, but there were no 
stones, and if there had been, Lizette could not 
throw like a boy. 

She did not dare to call for help, she did not know 
who might come, and she sat in growing misery and 
fear. An hour dragged slowly by, and the reptile 
kept its place. She was roasting in the sun, the 
torment of sunburn was setting in. She must do 
something. If only father would come! There 
was just a chance that he might hear her whistle. 
She put her ringers in her teeth and sent forth the 
blast that many a Southern woman has had to 
learn. At first it came out feebly, but again and 
again, each time louder it sounded, till the distant 
woods was reached, and she listened in fear and 
hope. If father heard he would know, and come. 
She strained her ears to catch some sound re- 
sponding. 

The reptile did not move. Another half-hour 
passed. The sun was growing fiercer. Again she 

42 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 



gave the far-reaching call; and this time, listening, 
heard sounds of going, of trampling, of coming; 
then her heart turned sick. Some one was coming. 
Who? If it were her father he would shout aloud. 
But this came only with the swish of moving feet. 
What if it should be one of those half-wild negro 
tramps! "Oh, father, help!" She tried to hide 
as the sounds came nearer — hide by burying her- 
self in sand. 

The reptile never stirred. 

The bushes swayed above the steep bank. Yes, 
now she saw a dark and moving form. Her first 
thought was a "Bear." The bushes parted, and 
forth came little Foam, grown somewhat, but a 
youngster still. Lizette's heart sank. " Oh, Foam, 
Foamy, if you only could help me!" and she sent a 
feeble whistle that was meant for her father, but 
the Razor-back it was that responded. 

Passing quickly along the bank, he came. There 
was but one way down. It led to the little sandy 
spit where lay her clothes, and her deadly foe. 

Overleaping logs and low brush came the agile 
Razor-back. He landed on the sand, and suddenly 
was face to face with the rattling, buzzing banded 
Death. 

Both taken by surprise recoiled, and made 
ready for attack. Lizette felt a heart clutch, to see 

43 



/*^ 







Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog; 

her old-time playmate face his fate. The Boar's 
crest arose, the battle light came in his eyes, 
the "chop, chop" of his weapons sounded; the age- 
long, deep instinctive hatred of the reptile came 
surging up in his little soul, and the battle fire was 
kindled there, with the courage that never flinches. 

Have you heard the short chopping roar that 
rumbles from the chest of a boar on battle bent — 
a warcry that well may strike terror into foemen 
who know the prowess that is there to back its 
promise? Yes, even when it comes from the half- 
grown throat of a youngster, with mere thorns for 
tusks. 

In three short raucous coughs that warcry came, 
and the Boar drew near. His golden mane stood 
up and gave him double size. His twinkling eyes 
shone like dull opals as he measured up his foe. 
He was a little puzzled by the white garments, but 
edging around for a better footing, he came be- 
tween the reptile and the stream, and thus, unwit- 
tingly, he ended every chance of its escape. 

No mother but Mother Nature taught him the 
moves. Yet she was a perfect teacher. Nothing 
can elude the Rattler's strike. It baffles the eye; 
lightning is not swifter. Its poison is death to all 
small creatures when absorbed, and absorbents 
there are in every creature, all over its body, except 

44 



< 






Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

on the cheeks and shoulders of a pig. Presenting 
these then, Foam approached. The Rattler's 
tail buzzed like a spinner, and his dancing tongue 
seemed taunting. With a clatter of his ivory knives 
and a few short, coughlike snorts, the Razor-back 
replied, and approached guardedly, tempting the 
snake to strike at its farthest possible range. Both 
seemed to know the game, although it must have 
been equally new to both. The snake knew that 
his life was at stake. His coils grew tighter yet, 
his baleful eyes were measuring the foe. A feint, 
and another, and a counter feint, and then — flash, 
the poison spear was thrown. To be dodged? No, 
no creature can dodge it. Foam felt it sting his 
cheek, the dreadful yellow spume was splashed on 
the wound, but only less quick was his sharp up- 
jerk. His young tusks caught the reptile's throat 
and tossed it as he had often tossed the duckling, 
and ere the poison reptile could recover and recoil, 
the Razor-back was on him, stamping and snorting. 
He ripped its belly open, he crushed its head, 
champing till his face and jaws were frothed, grunt- 
ing small war-grunts, and rending, nor ceased till 
all there was left of the death-dealer was evil-smell- 
ing rags of scaly flesh ground into the polluted 
dust. 
"Oh, Foam, oh, Foamy, God bless you!" was all 

45 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 



z" — % 



*% 



& 








*m& 



Lizette could say. She almost fainted for relief. 
But now the way was clear. A dozen strokes and 
she was on the point beside the Boar. Una had 
found her Lion again. 

And Foam, she hardly knew what to think of 
him. He curveted around her on the sand. She 
almost expected to see him sicken and fall; then 
joyfully, thankfully she remembered what her 

father had told her of the terrors of 

HgftP* snake-bite, from which the whole hog 
race was quite immune. 

"I wish I knew how to reward you," she said 
with simple sincerity. Foam knew, and very soon 
he let her know: all he asked in return was this: 
" You scratch my back." 

WILDWOOD MEDICINE 

Are the wild things never ill? Is disease un- 
known among them? Alas! we know too well 
that they are tormented pretty much as we are. 
They have a few remedies that are potent to help 
the strong, but the weak must quickly die. 

And what are the healing things they use? How 
well they are known to every woodsman! The 
sunbath, the cold-water bath, the warm-mud bath, 
the fast, the water cure, the vomit, the purge, the 
change of diet and place, and the rest cure, with 

46 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

tongue massage of the part where there is a bruise 
or an open wound. 

And who is the doctor who prescribes the time 
and measure? Only this: the craving of the body. 
Take the thing and so much of it as is agreeable; 
when it becomes painful or even irksome, that is 
the body's way of saying " enough." 

These are the healing ways of animals, these are 
the things that every woodsman knows. These 
are the things that are discovered anew each gener- 
ation by some prophet of our kind. If he calls 
them by their simple names he is mocked, but if 
he gives them Latin names, he is a great scientist 
and receives world rewards. 

Autumn came on Mayo Valley, a thousand little 
yellow fairy boats were sailing southward on Kogar's 
Creek, and the "pat, pat, pit" of falling nuts was 
heard through all the woods. Rich, growing food 
are nuts, and Foam was busied stuffing himself 
each day: racing perhaps after butterflies, pretend- 
ing to root up some big tree, kneeling to swing his 
head and gash the sod with his growing tusks, spring- 
ing to his feet to bound a few yards, then halt in 
a moment, frozen to a statue. Rejoicing in his 
strength, he grew more strong, and the skating of 
the final leaves that left the trees found him grown 
in shank and jaw, lank and light as yet, but framing 

47 







Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

for a mighty Boar. The tragedy of the broken 
paling in the fence had opened up a larger life to 
him. 5 Tis ever thus. He never more was an in- 
mate of that pen: he inhabited Virginia now. 

Down in the black muck swamp he had discov- 
ered the trailing ground-nut vines, and when he 
rooted them out, his nose said, "These are good/' 
Yes, he remembered dimly that his mother used 
to eat that smell. They furnished a pleasant 
change from the tree nuts, and he feasted and grew 
fat. Then he rooted out another old-time root, 
with a fierce and burning tang, he knew that with- 
out munching it, and he tossed the root aside with 
others of its kind; big, fat, and tempting to the 
eye they were, but Foam had a safer guide. 

Then gorged, he wandered to a sunny slope and, 

grunting comfortably, dropped flat side flop 
f upon the leaves in lazy, swinish ease. 

A bluejay flew just above and shrieked, "You 
rooter, you rooter!" A wood-pewee snapped flies 
above his ear, a bog-mouse scrambled over his 
half-buried leg, yet Foam dozed calmly on. 

Then afar a strange sound stirred the silence, a 
deep- voiced, wailing, whining "Wah-wah-wah, 
wow-w-w!" then almost screaming, then broken 
by sobs and snorts, and sometimes falling and 
muffled, then clear and near — the strangest, mad- 

., - — _ 




FOAM RA20R3ACK E$fy 
US. A 

The Woods? 



* 



Foam — A Razor-Backed* Hog 

dest medley, and so strong it must be the voice of 
some great forest creature. 

Foam was on his feet in a heart-beat, and stock- 
still there for ten. Now nosing like a pointer with 
ears acock, with every sense at strain, he crept 
forward like one spell-drawn. 

Slowly back to the rich bottomland the weird 
sounds led, and then peering through the wire 
grass he saw his ancient foe, rooting up, crunching, 
swallowing one after another those terrible burn- 
ing roots, the white round roots that sting, that 
tear your very throat, that gripe your bowels, 
that wring the cheeks with torture like the brands 
that men leave in the smoking summer land. 

Yet on he kept digging, munching, weeping, 
wailing — digging another, munching it as the 
tears rolled from his eyes, and the burning pain 
scorched his slobbering jaws. And still another 
did that great black monster dig and mouth, and 
wept and wailed as he did so, and another and an- 
other was crowded down his sobbing throat. 

Was he insane? Far from it. Was he starving? 
Not so; the ground was thick with nuts. Then 
why this dreadful, self-inflicted pain? Who was 
his master that could order it? Foam had no 
thoughts about it. The Bear himself could have 
told you nothing. And yet he was yielding to an 

49 




Foam — A Razot-Backed Hog: 



■fr'MllllWlft/i.MiWjlfr 




overmastering inner guide. And these are things 
we think, but do not surely know: the Bear that 
seeks only meat for food invites a dire disease that 
chiefly hurts the skin, and doubly those who make 
that diet flesh of swine. 

It is an ailment of burning skin; the body seems 
in torment of a myriad tiny fires. And this we 
think we know: the fiery root affords relief — a slow 
but sure relief. 

And Foam, a youngster yet, afraid, but less 
afraid, backed slowly from the field a little puzzled, 
wholly uncomprehending anything but this: his 
enemy was eating roots and bawling as he ate, and 
still was bawling out aloud when Foam was far away. 



SPRINGTIME 



It 



was a bountiful harvest in the woods that 
,/year, and when the branches were bare, the chica- 
/ ree had seven hollow trees crammed with nuts and 
acorns, and a well-lined nest near each. 
I The Muskrat had made huge haycocks in the 
marsh, the Woodchucks were amazing fat, and 
every Tree-mouse laid up food as for a three years' 
famine. The warning of the signs so clear came 
true: the winter was hard and white. 

The woods had been mightily pleasing to young 
Foam, but now were dull and dreary. His bristly 

5o 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

hair grew long and thick as the weather cooled, 
but not enough; a colder storm set in and Foam at 
last was forced to seek the shelter of the barn. 
There were other pigs about, most of them vulgar 
porkers of the fat and simple table sort, but there 
were also one or two aristocrats of the real Razor- 
back strain. At first they were somewhat offish, 
inclined to thrust him aside like a mere pedigreed 
pig, but his legs were stout and his tusks were 
sharp, and he stood quite ready to make good. So 
by steps he joined himself to the group that snug- 
gled under the barn by night and took its daily 
comfort at a trough — kinsmen mildly tolerant of 
each other. 

The winter passed and sweet Mistress April of 
the little leaves was nigh. The influence of the 
time was on the hills and in the woods; it even 
reached under the barn among the pigs and stirred 
them up to life, each in his sort. The fat porkers 
came slowly forth to the sun, placidly grunting 
and showing a mild concern in such things of inter- 
est as came in range of their low-level vision. 

Foam trotted forth like a young colt. How long 
his legs had grown! How big he was! What 
shoulders and what a neck of brawn! He was 
taller than any other in the yard, his gold-red hair 
was rank, and on his neck and back it made a great 

5i 




Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

hyena mane. When he walked there was spring 
in his feet, alertness in his poise, and the logy 
porkers seemed downladen with themselves as 
they slowly heaved aside to let him pass. The 
joy of life was on him, and he tossed a heavy trough 
up in the air, and curveted like a stallion. Then 
a distant sound made him whirl and run like a 
mustang. It was Lizette's whistle. They had 
come very close together that winter, and clear- 
ing the low wall like a Deer, Foam reached the 
door to get a special dish of things he loved, to 
have his back scratched, and, last, to hold up his 
forefeet for a rubbing, if not indeed each time for a 
coat of polish. 

"That Foam, as ye call him, Lizette, is more 
dawg than hawg," Farmer Prunty used to say as 
he watched the growing Razor-back following the 
child or playing round her like a puppy — a puppy 
that weighed 150 pounds, this second springtime 
of his life. But Foam was merely reviving the 
ways of his ancestors, long lost in sodden prison 
pens. 

GRIZEL SEEKS HER FORTUNE 

It's a long dusty road from Dan River Bridge 
to Mayo, yet down its whole length there trotted 
a sleek young Razor-back. She was barely full 

5* 







Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog 

grown, shaped in body and limbs like a Deer, and 
clad in a close coat of glistening grizzly hair that 
flashed in the sun when the weather was right, but 
now was thickly sprinkled with the reddish dust 
of the old Virginia highway. 

Down the long pike she trotted, swinging her 
sensitive nose, cocking her ears to this or that 
sound, running some trace a while, like an eager Fox, 
or making a careful smell study of posts that edged 
her trail, or marked the trails of offshoot. 

An hour, and another hour, she journeyed 
on, with the steady tireless trot of a searching 
Razor-back, alert to every promise offered by her 
senses. 

The miles reeled by, she was now in Mayo Val- 
ley, but still kept on. Now she found a good 
rubbing post. It seemed somewhat pleasing to 
her, she used it well, but soon went on. 

What was she doing? 

How often we can explain some animal act by 
looking into ourselves. There comes a time in 
the life of every man and woman when they are 
filled with a yearning to go forth into the world 
and seek their fortune. And the wise say, "Let 
them go!" This same impulse comes on wild 
things, and the wise ones go. This, then, is what 
Grizel was doing. She was seeking her fortune, 

53 




Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

She stopped at many a crossroad and J 
she studied many a faint suggestion on | 
the breeze, but she still kept trotting on, * .- 
till evening saw her in the woods that lies ; 
beyond the lower bridge of Kogar's Creek. ; 

,i 



it 



A- 




THE SCRATCHING POST 

Of all the scratching posts on 
Prunty's farm quite the best was the 
rough old cedar corner that marks the farthest point 
of pasture down the swale. A rough trunk for a 
rough corner, so it still bore in its imperishable sub- 
stance the many short knots of its living days. 
ft I They made a veritable comb at just the fittest 
&hv TO height. Every pig in the pasture knew it well. None 
passed it without a halt to claim its benevolence. 

The Prunty swine were loitering near; the huge 
old grandam shouldered another back so she might 
rub. Then Foam came striding by. His strength 
and tusks had weeks past given him right of way. 
He neared the post. Then, shall I tell it, the post 
sang out aloud, yes, sang aloud, in a tongue that 
you or I could never have understood. Even could 
our duller senses have heard it, what message could 
we get from: 

"Klak-karra, klak-karra 
Gorka-li-gorra-wauk? " 

54 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 



But Foam, whose eyes here helped him not, was 
all ablaze. Not waiting for the huge old hulking 
grandam to swing away, he sent her rolling down 
the slope with the armpit heave and pitch that 
the wrestler knows makes double of his strength. 

The gold-red mane on his back stood up as he 
nosed and mouthed the post, then he raked his 
flanks against it, and reared and rubbed again; ran 
forward a little to scan the trail, came back to rub 
in a new excitement, then raced like a Mad-moon 
buck, and came again, drove others from the post, 
and circled off still farther in the woods. 

Then nosing a trail that to the eye said nothing, he 
followed it at speed. This way and that, then ever 
more sure, sprang through a swamp-wood thicket and 
into a sunny open, to see leap also from the screen a 
slim gray form, a Razor-back, one of his own high 
blood : and more, his nostrils bade him know that this 
was the very one that left the message on the post. 

She fled, he bounded after. Across the open 
stretch, with Foam still nearer, a keen-eyed witness 
might have doubted that she ran her fastest. Who 
can tell? This much is sure: before the edge of 
woods was reached he overtook her, and she wheeled 
and faced, uttering little puffs, half fear, half beg-_ 
ging for release; and face to face, a little on the slant' 
they stood, strong Foam and slim Grizel. 

55 





Foam— A RazoHBackecJ Hog 

There be some whose loves must slowly join 
their lives, who must overcome doubts and try 
each other long before convinced. And there be 
those who know at once when they have met the 
one, their only fate. This brief decree Foam gath- 
ered from the post; and Grizfel was sure when gently 
rubbing on her cheeks she felt the ivory scimitars 
that are the proofs and symbols of the other mind. 

She knew not what she went that day to seek, 
but now she knew she had found it, 

THE LOVERS 

The barnyard saw no more of Foam for days, for 
he wandered in the pleasant woods making close 
acquaintance with his new-found mate. The Red 
Squirrel on the tree limb chattered and coughed 
betimes as though to let them know that he was 
about, but they sought the farthest woods and so 
saw little but its shyest native folk. 

Then one day as they wandered a strange noise 
came from the swamp. Foam moved toward the 
place, with Grizel, hip near, following. The way 
was down the hill toward a black muck swale. 
Coming close they found the usual belt of tall ferns. 
Foam pushed through these and in a moment 
found himself face to face with his foe, the huge 
black Kogar's Bear. 

S6 



Foam — A Razor-Backed* Hog; 

Foam's mane stood up, his eyes flashed with 
green fire, his jaws went "chop, chop" with deep, 
portentous sound. The Bear rose up and growled. 
He should have felt ridiculous, for he was coated 
with mud from his neck to the tip of his tail, black, 
sticky, smelly mud, the muddiest of mud. He must 
have wallowed there for hours. Yes, the Red Squir- 
rel could have told you for hours on many different 
days. He was taking the cure that the wild beast 
takes: the second course, the one that follows the 
purge. 

But Foam thought not of that. Here was the 
thing he hated and one time feared, but now feared 
less and less. Still he was not minded to risk a 
fight — not yet. The Bear, too, remembered the 
day of his mangled paw and the gaping wounds 
in his side, given by a lesser foe than this, and sul- 
lenly with growl or grunt, each slowly backed, and 
went his divers way. 




THE WILDCAT 

You see That turkey-buzzard a mile up yonder? 
He seems a speck to you, you poor blind human 
thing, but he has eyes, he can watch you as he 
swings, he can see your face and the way you are 
looking, and also he can see the Deer on the moun- 
tain miles away. 




^^r 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 




He cannot see the forest floor, for the leafy roof 
is over. But there are gaps in the roof, and they 
often give a peep of things going on below. So the 
Turkey-buzzard one day watched a scene that no 
man could have seen. 

A gray-brown furry creature with a short and 
restless tail came gliding down a little forest trail 
that was the daily path of many creatures seeking 
to drink at the river, but Gray-cqat ran each log 
that lay near his line of travel, then stopping at an 
upright limb that sprang from the great pine trunk 
which made his present highway, he halted in his 
slinking pose, rose to the full height of his four long 
legs, raised high his striped head, spread his soft 
velvety throat, white with telling spots of black, 
rubbed his whiskers on the high branch, rubbed his 
back, and gazed up into the blue sky, displaying the 
cruel, splendid face of a mountain Wildcat. 

In three great airy wheels the Vulture swung 
down, down, watching still the picture through the 
peephole of the roof. 

The Wildcat scratched his chin, then his left cheek, 
then his right, and was beginning all over again 
when a medley of sounds of voices and of many feet 
was heard afar, and Gray-coat's eager, alert, listen- 
ing poise was a thing of power, restraint, and of 
wondrous grace. 

53 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 



The Buzzard, swinging lower, heard them, too. 

The sounds came nearer; Old Gray-coat of the 
cruel face sprang lightly from the fallen pine to the 
stump where once it grew; there with the wonderful 
art of the beast of prey he melted himself into 
the stump — became nothing but a bump of bark. 

The sounds still grew. Plainly a host of crea- 
tures were corning down the game trail. The 
Wildcat gazed intently from his high lookout. The 
lesser cover moved, then out there stepped a mother 
Razor-back with a brood of jostling, rustling, 
grunting, playful little Razor-backs behind her. 
Straying this way and that, then bounding to over- 
take mother, they made a little mob of roysterers; 
and sometimes they kept the trail, but sometimes 
wandered. Stringing along they came, and the 
bobtailed Tiger on the stump gazed still and tense, 
with teeth and claws all set, for here was a luscious 
meal in easy reach. The mother passed the stump 
with its evil-eyed watchman, and also the first and 
second of the rollicking crew. Then there was a 
gap in the little procession, and the Tiger gathered 
himself for a spring, but other sounds of feet and 
gruntings told that more were coming, and they 
rollicked after mother; another gap, and last and 
least of all, the runtie of the brood. 

Everything was playing the Tiger's game. He 







V 



1 



\i 






59 



Foam — A Rasot-Backed Hog 

sprang. In a moment he had the little pig by the 
neck. Its scream of pain sent a thrill through all 
the band. The mother wheeled and charged. But 
the big cat was wise. He had made a plan. In 
one great scrambling bound he was high and safe 
on the pine stump, with the little pig squealing 
beneath his paws where he held it tight and re- 
morselessly as he gazed down in cruel scorn on the 
tormented mother vainly ramping at the stump. 

At her highest stretch she could barely touch its 
top edge. Beyond that was past her reach, and 
the big cat on the stump struck many a cruel blow 
with his armed paw on the frantic mother's face. 
There seemed no way, no hope for Runtie. But 
there was, and it came not from thsrhead of the 
procession, as the cat had feared, but from the tail. 

The Turkey-buzzard, lower yet, not only saw and 
heard, but even got some of the sense of shock the 
great cat got when the bush tops jerked and swayed 
and parted, and out below there rushed a huge 
Wild Boar. 

If Cruel-face had been at all cowed by the raging 
mother, he would have been terror stricken now, 
and when that mighty beast rose up and reared 
against the stump, his jaws with their sabres could 
sweep halfway over the top, and the gray-coated 
villain had to move quickly to the other side, and 

60 




Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

ever change as the Boar rushed around, but he 
never lost hold on the baby pig, whose squeals were 
getting very feeble now. 

Then the silent Turkey-buzzard and the noisy 
applauding Red Squirrel saw a strange thing happen : 
The stump was beyond reach of the Boar at his 
highest stretch, but the great pine log was there, 
and three leaps away was a thick side limb that 
made a place of easy ascent. 'Twas here the 
mother scrambled up, then along the log, and now 
with a little leap she was on the stump and con- 
fronting the Tiger. 

He faced her with a horrible snarl, a countenance 
of devilish rage; to scare her was his intent. What, 
scare a mother Razor-back, whose young is scream- 
ing " Mother, Mother, help me!" She went at 
him like a fury. The stinging blow of his huge 
paw was nothing to the lunge, slash, and heave she 
launched with all her vim, and the Tiger tumbled 
from the stump with a howl of hate, and landed on 
the ground, and leaped and might have escaped, 
but the biggest of the brood, its warrior blood stirred 
up by all this war, seized his broad paw and held 
him just a moment — just enough, for now the Boar 
was there. 

Oh, horrors! what a shock it is, even when the 
fallen foe is one we hate! The mighty rush of the 

61 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

Boar, the click of weapons, the hideous rumbled 
hate, the animal heaving sounds, the screech and 
chop, the flying mist of hair, the maze of swift and 
desperate act, the drop to almost calm, then the 
slash, slash, slash with sounds of rending pelt and 
breaking bone, and tossing of a limp form here and 
there, or the holding of it with both forefeet while 
it is mangled yet again. 

The Boar grew calm, his battle madness went, 
and the little pigs came, one by one, to sniff and 
snort and run away. They had added another that 
day to their catalogue of smells. 

And Runtie, he was lying deep in the brush on the 
other side of the stump. His mother came and 
nosed him over and nudged him gently and walked 
away and came again to nudge. But the brothers 
were lively and thirsty: she must go on with them. 
She raged against the fierce brute that had killed 
her little one. She lingered about, then led the 
others to the brook. Then they all came back. 
The little ones were once more merry and riotous. 
The mother came to nudge and coax the limp and 
bloody form, but its eyes had glazed. The father 
tossed the furry trash aside, and then all passed on. 

These things the Turkey-buzzard saw, and I 
would I had his eyes, for this was a chapter in the 
story of Foam and Grizel that was told only by the 

62 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

silent little signs that it takes a hunter's eyes to see 
and read. 

THE PORK -EATING BEAR 

Why does pork-eating become so often a mania? 
Why does it commonly end in dire disease? We 
do not know. We have never heard of such pen- 
alties with any animal foods but pork. Surely the 
fathers of the church were wise who ruled that their 
people touch it not at all. 

The Kogar's Bear was a pork-eater now. His 
range was all the valley where there were pigs, and 
his nightly resort was some pig-pen where the fat 
and tender young porkers were an easy prey, far, 
far better to the taste and much safer to get than 
the bristle-clad young rooters of the Razor-back 
breed. He seemed to know just when and where to 
go to avoid trouble and find sucklings. Of course 
he did not really know, but each time he raided 
some pig-pen the uproar of hounds and hunters for 
a day or more after induced him to seek other pas- 
tures, and when he happened on them his nose was 
sure to guide him to the pen of fatling pigs. Traps 
were set for him, but avoided, because he never 
went twice to the same pen. So the combination 
of shyness and keen smelling looked like profound 
sagacity, yet we must not scoff at it, for it gave re- 

63 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

suits that seemed, and were, in a sense, the very 
same. 

Is it not a curious fact that those who give up to 
a craze for some special meat always learn to prefer 
it a little "high," and "higher," and finally are 
not well pleased unless the food is positively tainted 
■ — a mass of vile corruption? And this they learn 
from the old-time animal habit of burying food 
when they have more than they need at once. 

Thus it was that Scab-face, striding dark and 
silent through the woods by the branch, led by a 
smell he loved came on the unburied body of 
Run tie. The mother was away perforce with her 
living charge. 

The Turkey-buzzard had not touched it, for it 
was fallen under brushwood. The orange and 
black sexton beetles were not there; it had not 
yet come in their department. It was a windfall 
for the Bear. 

Reaching his long scabby nose into the thicket, 
he pulled it out, carried it a little way, then digging 
a hole he buried it deep to ripen for some future 
feast. 

Wild animals usually remember their "cache," 
as the hunters call it, and come to the place when 
they chance in the neighborhood to see if it is all 
right. Thus Kogar's called next day. 

64 







Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

When a wild animal loses near and dear ones at 
a given place it goes to that place afterward for 
days to "mourn," as the Indians say. That is, 
if they are passing near, they turn aside to sniff 
about the place, and utter deep moans or paw up 
the ground, or rub the trees for a few moments, 
then pass on. The mourning is loudest the earli- 
est days, and is usually ended by the first shower 
of rain, which robs the place of all reminiscent 
smells. 

One day had gone since Runtie's end, and Grizel, 
passing on the trail, came now to mourn. And 
thus they met. 

When a Razor-back is much afraid it gives the 
far-reaching tribal call for help. When it is not 
afraid it gives the short choppy warcry and closes 
with the enemy; and this is where Grizel made a 
sad mistake. She gave the warcry and closed. 
The Bear backed and dodged. They circled and 
sparred. The Bear would have gladly called a 
halt, though he was far bigger and stronger, but 
Grizel was bolstered up by the smell memories 
of the place. Her mother love was her inner 
strength, and still she closed; the Bear still backed 
till they neared the open space that lies along the 
high cut bank over the stream. Now was Grizel' s 
chance, with open level ground; she charged. The 

65 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

Bear sprang aside and struck with his armed paw. 
Had the blow landed on her ribs it might have 
ended her power, but it was received on her solid 
shoulder mass. It sent her staggering back, and 
as she went she gave the loud shrilling call for help, 
the call she should have given at first, the blast that 
stirs the blood of the Razor-back who hears it as 
the coast patrol is stirred by the cry for help. And 
again she fronted the Bear. Slowly turning this 
way and that, they faced each other, each watching 
for a chance. Grizel made a feint, the foe swung 
back, she charged. The Bear recoiled a little, 
braced, then swung and dodged, then as she passed 
he struck a mighty blow that hurled her, badly 
bruised and struggling, down the slope three leaps 
away, and over the cut bank, to splash into the 
stream below. 

She could swim quite well, but loved it not. She 
splashed as she struck out, and gave no cry, for 
the blow had robbed her of her wind. Then the 
kindly stream bore her quickly down to a far and 
easy landing. 

A moving in the bushes, a large animal sound, 
and on the bank there loomed a bulk of reddish 
black. Grizel now scrambled out and with the 
"low short sounds of recognition they came together. 
But Foam had come a little late. The Bear was 

66 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

gone, and gone with a new-found sense of triumph, 
Scab-face had vanquished a full-grown Razor-back. 

HILL BILLY BOGUE 

Jack Prunty was raging. He walked around his 
new garden that morning using language that is 
never heard nowadays except perhaps on the golf 
links, certainly not permissible elsewhere. Here 
were lines of lettuce gone and whole patches of 
beets and watermelons. The asparagus bed, 
though not in active service, was trampled, while 
the cabbage patch was simply ruined. 

His negro help was careful to point out that all 
the damage was by "hawgs" — this to prevent any 
suspicion lighting on the innocent. But it was 
not necessary. The broken fence, the myriad 
hoofmarks and bites taken out of turnips and 
cabbage were proof enough; no blame could rest 
on the negro or his kin. 

Jack Henty was raging. He walked around his 
ample barnyards that morning uttering Virgin- 
ianisms, as his faithful negro foreman pointed out 
(to prevent mistakes) that the Bear had gone here 
and there, and here had carried off the thoroughbred 
pedigreed imported Berkshire, hope of its race; and 
it wasn't the first they had lost, for 
Henty and his friends had other pens, 

67 




1 




if 



Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog 




and in many raids their losses had been heavy. 
But this was the climax. The sow on which his 
hopes were built was the victim selected by the Bear. 
This is why Hill Billy Bogue received two in- 
vitations in one day to come with his "houn' 
dawgs" and win immortal fame as the defender of 
gardens and pens. 

There were reasons for favoring Prunty. Henty 
was little loved: he was too rich and grasping, 
and had used harsh language toward Bogue, with 
threats of law for crimes that certainly had been 
committed by some one near. 

So Hill Billy appeared at the Prunty home with 
five gaunt dogs and a new sense of social uplift. 
Much as the undertaker dominates all the house- 
hold at a funeral, so Hill Billy at once assumed 
the air and authority of a commander and expert. 
* "Ho, ho! Wall I be goshed! 
*| Look at them for tracks — a hull 
>v j* ^ family. Gee whiskers! 

^■** s ^^£ what an ole socker! I bet 
^^f ^/^ yeh that was a fo'-hunder- 

pound Boar." 
"On, daddy," cried Lizette, "do you 
suppose it was Foam? " 

"Don't care if it was," said Prunty. "We can't 
stand this destruction; it's a case of stop right now." 

68 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

The hunter kept on his examination of the trail. 
He was a shiftless old vagabond, useless for steady- 
work, and a devotee of the demijohn, but he cer- 
tainly knew his business as a tracker. He an- 
nounced, " Just a regulation ole Razor-back family, 
a long-legged sow, a hatchin' o' grunters, and a 
Boar as big as a chicken house.'' 

The fence was little more than a moral effect. 
Conscientious cows and incompetent ducks it 
might keep out, but to a Razor-back it was prac- 
tically an invitation to attempt and enjoy. Some 
such thought was in Lizette's mind when she said, 
"Daddy, why can't we make a real fence, and a 
strong one that no pig could break through? It 
would be easy around three acres." 

"Who'll pay for it?" said Prunty. "An' what's 
the use of a Razor-back anyway? They're no 
good." 

"Wall," said the great man who was now com- 
bining Napoleon, Nimrod, and Sherlock Holmes, 
"didn't ye hear about the three little kids at Coe's 
school struck by a rattler and all died this week, 
the hull three of 'em? Rattlers is getting mighty 
thick up thet-a-way. Folks says it's all cause they 
cleaned out the Razor-backs, and I guess that's the 
answer all right." 

Then Napoleon Nimrod Holmes Bogue began 

69 








Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

to run the hoofmarks through the woods. The 
wanderings of the band had ceased. All here had 
followed the leader, so it was easy to keep the trail 
for a quarter of a mile. Hill Billy kept it; then, 
sure of the main fact, he went back, unchained the 
five gaunt hounds, worshipped in libation to his 
god, took rifle in hand, and swung away with the 
long, free stride of the woodsman. 

Prunty was to head direct for Kogar's Hill, and 
then guided by the sounds in the valley below make 
for the spot where the clamor of the dogs an- 
nounced at length that the Razor-backs were at bay. 

Lizette went with her father. 

THE HOG WARRIOR AND THE HOUNDS 

The hounds showed little interest for a while, 
for the trail was cold, but Hill Billy kept them to 
it for a mile or two. Then there were plenty of 
signs of a pig band's recent visit, and Billy was 
relieved of the labor of trailing, for now the scent 
was fresh, and the hounds grew keen. 

Then loud musical baying rang in the forest as 
they trailed and blew their hunting blasts. There 
were sounds of going in the distance, of rushing 
through grass and thickets, and short squeals, 
and some deeper sounds more guttural, and ever 
the baying of the hounds. 



fc»-.: Yr -> - 






^ "C 



v v -v- * 



*r if 



Foam — A Razor- Backed Hog 

The chase swung far away, and Billy had much ado 
to follow. Then the sounds were all at one place, 
and Billy knew that the climax was at hand, the mo- 
ment of all that the hunter loves, when the fighting 
quarry is at bay, and ready for a finish fight. 

The baying of the hounds was changed as he 
hurried near; now it was a note of fear in some; 
then there was an unmistakable yell of pain, and 
again the defiant baying that means they are 
facing a quarry that they hold in deep respect. 

Forcing his way through the thick brushwood, 
Billy got within twenty yards of the racket, but 
still saw nothing. 

"Yap, yap, yap, yip, yip, yow, yow," went the 
different dogs. Then sounded the deep-chested 
"Gruff, gruff" of a huger animal, and a wee, small 
sound, a "click, click." Oh, how little it seemed, 
but how much it meant — the click of a Razor- 
back's tusks — the warning that comes from a 
fighting Boar. The baying moved here and there ? 
then the bushes swayed, there was a sound of 
rushing, there were hound yells of pain and fear, 
and a yelping that went wandering away to the 
left, and another unseen rush with a deep-toned 
"Howrrr" and nothing to be seen. It was mad- 
dening, his dogs being killed, and he could take no 
part. 

7* 



Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog 




Bogue rushed recklessly forward. In a mo- 
ment he was facing a scene that stirred him. He 
saw the huge hog warrior charge, he saw the flash- 
ing scimitars of golden white, he saw but two dogs 
left — then only one, the mongrel of the pack, and 
the Razor-back, sighting his deadliest foe, dashed 
past the dog and charged. Up went the rifle, but 
there was no chance to aim; the ball lodged harm- 
lessly in the mud. 

Now Billy sprang aside, but the Boar was near, 
was swifter, stronger, less hindered by the brush. 
The hunter's days would have ended right there 
but for the remaining dog, who seized the Razor- 
back by the hock, and held on as for dear life. 

Hill Billy saw his chance. Plunging out of the 
dangerous thicket to the nearest tree, he swung 
himself up to a place of safety, as the Boar, having 
slashed this wastrel of the pack, came bristling, 
snorting and savage, to ramp against the harbor- 
ing tree, and speak his hatred of the foe in raucous, 
deep-breathed, grating animal terms. 

LIZETTE AND AN OLD FRIEND 

What joy it is to be in a high place and see the 
great leafy world at our feet below. What joy 
on a hunt, to hear the stirring hunting cry; to 
1§^ know that some great beast is there, and now we 
5 72 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

may try our mettle if we will. Some memory of 
his youth came back on him as Prunty with Li- 
zette held eager harkening to the chase. How 
clear and close it sounded, and when the baying 
centred at one spot Old Prunty was like a boy, and, 
rushing as he should not at his age, he stumbled, 
slid, and fell, giving himself a heavy shock, and 
hurting his ankle so badly that he sat down on 
a log and railed in local language at his luck. 

The baying of the hounds kept on. He tried to 
walk, then realizing his helplessness, he exclaimed: 
"Here, Lizette, you hurry down to Bogue and tell 
him to hold back for me as long as he can. I'll 
follow slowly. You better carry the gun." 

So Lizette set off alone, guided only by the 
clamor of the hounds. For twenty minutes it 
was her sufficient guide, then it seemed to die 
away. Then there were a few yelps and silence. 
Still she kept on, and, hearing nothing, she gave 
a long shout that Bogue up the tree did not hear; 
so she tried another means, her whistle, and judg- 
ing that the other hunter was coming to his rescue, 
Bogue shouted many things that she could not 
understand. 

Then, seeking guidance from his voice, and 
offering guidance to her father, she whistled again 
and again. It reached them both, but it also 

73 




Foam— A Razor-Backed Hog 

reached another. The great Boar raised his head. 
He ceased to ramp and growl. He gave an in- 
quiring grunt. Then came anew the encouraging 
whistle. 

From his high, wretched perch Bogue saw Li- 
zette suddenly appear alone but carrying the 
rifle, and mount a log to get a view. He shouted 
out: 

"Look out! He's going your way! Get up as 
high as you can and aim straight!" 

It was all so plain to him, he did not understand 
why she should be in doubt. But she gave another 
loud whistle. A great red-maned form came 
quickly through the bushes, uttering a very familiar 
soft grunt. At first she was startled, then it be- 
came clear. 

"Foam, Foam, Old Foamy!" she cried, and as the 
huge brute came trotting, his bristling crest sank 
down. He reared upon the log. He whispered 
hog-talk in his chest, he rubbed his cheek on her 
foot, he moved his shoulder hard against the log, 
and then held up his mighty hoofs arow for the 
pleasant rub that one time meant "French polish." 
Nor did he rest content till their ancient pact was 
carried out, and Lizette had scratched his broad 
and brawny back. Sitting on the log beside him, 
she scratched while Bogue in the tree screamed 

74 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

warnings and urgings to, "Shoot, shoot, or he'll 
kill you!" 

"Shoot, you fool!" she snorted. "I'd as soon 
think of shooting my big brother; and Foam 
wouldn't harm me any more than he would his 
little sister." 

So the wild beast was tamed by the ancient 
magic, and presently the big Boar, grunting com- 
fortably, went to his woods and was seen that day fr t 
no more. 

THE BEAR CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM 

Yes, the Bear came back on a later day to his 
cache beside the river and the scene of his victory; 
there robbed the Vultures and had his horrid feast. 
He lingered in the neighborhood, and thus it 
was that fortune played for him. When next 
the Razor-back crew came rooting and straggling 
through the woods, the mother ahead and father 
too far astern to be a menace, they came to the 
fording place of the river. The little ones loved 
it not, held back, but mother pushed on ahead, 
had almost to swim in the middle. The family 
lingered on the bank with apprehensive grunts. 
One by one they screwed up their courage for the 
plunge, till only one was left. Finding himself 
alone, he set up a very wail of distress. 

75 




Foam-— A Razor-Backed Hog: 

It reached other ears. Old Kogar's knew the 
cry of a lost porker. The voice was so small that 
his own valor was big. He glided swiftly that 
way. The mother pig, minded to teach her young- 
ster a lesson of prompt obedience, paid no heed 
to his cry, but went on. 

The left-behind one squealed still louder. The 
bank above his head crumbled a little under a 
heavy tread. There was the thud of a mighty 
blow, and the little pig was stilled. Then the 
long head and neck of Kogar's reached down and 
picked him from the mud. Swiftly passing up 
the bank, following up the slope of a leaning tree, 
he landed on a high ledge, and so passed over the 
hill. 

On the other side, safer than he knew even, he 
sat to mouth and maul the victim, and to think in 
his own unthinking way, " Sweet indeed is wood- 
land pork. The creatures are not so strong and 
dreadful as they seemed to me once. I fear them 
no longer. I will henceforth kill and eat." 



THE DEFEAT OF HILL BILLY 

When Hill Billy got home that night he found 
three of his hounds awaiting him, one of them 
badly cut up in body, the others very badly cut up 

76 




Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 



in spirit, for the interest they thenceforth took 
hunting Razor-backs was a very small, cold, dying 
near-dead thing. And start them fairly as he 
would it was aggravating to find how, soon or fe 
late, they took some side or crossing trail that ended / 
where a Coon, perhaps, had climbed a tree, or a*- 
Tossum sought the safe retreat of a crevice far 
in a rock. 

Hill Billy might have gone to the shack of a 
rival hunter and borrowed more effective hounds, 
but that would have been admitting that his own 
were cowards and failures. His pride revolted 
at the thought. He was a true hunter at heart, 
not easily balked; he was strong and crafty, too, 
and quite able to run a trail if it seemed worth 
such an effort. So when a new message came from 
Prunty with a new tale of destruction and promises 
of wealth for successful service, he answered: 
"Wait till it comes a good rain, then I'Jl take the 
trail myself. I'll show ye." 

And this was why the morning after the first 
heavy rain that memorable still hunt was organized. 
Only Prunty and Bogue took part. The hunter 
didn't want a crowd; this was a still hunt. Li- 
zette's appeals for peace and a real fence were 
ignored. "You shall have his ivories for a brace- 
let; I'll get a gold band put on," was the bribe 

77 









ft 



ft 



ft 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

her father offered, nearly as much to buy off him- 
self as his daughter. 



tf> 



lb 



W f, 







ft 



THE DAY OF JUDGMENT 

Heavy rain wipes out all previous tracks. It 
makes the new track deep and strong. It stills 
Jty all rustling leaves or crackling twigs. After heavy 
* • rain a good hunter needs no hound. Away they 
flj went, Hill Billy and Prunty, each taking a rifle often 
* ' proved, for both were riflemen. They differed little 
in age, but Prunty was sore pressed to keep up 
with the lank, lithe hunter who strode ahead scan- 
ning every yard of ground for some telltale sign. 

Down in the swamp were ancient marks now 
dim with rain. All they said, and said it feebly, 
was, " Yes, but some days back." 

So the hunters coursed along the swamp edge 
and down the branch, then over the low hills, and 
on to Kogar's Creek, and Prunty, breathless, 
called a halt. Hill Billy kept on, and within a 
mile had found what he sought so hard, the trail 
of a band of Razor-backs. He followed but a 
little way, till he also found their leader's four-inch 
track, that made the rest look trivial. 

"Yo, ho!" he shouted back to Prunty. "Fve 
got him! Come on!" and Billy was off with no 
thought for anything but the track. 

78 




<Cv 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

Prunty struggled along behind, but the pace was 
overhot for him. The answering shouts from 
Hill Billy became very faint; so, tired and wrathy, 
Prunty sat down on a log to rest and wait for 
something to turn up. 

A quarter of an hour passed. He was breathed, 
and feeling better now, but there was no guiding 
sound to tell of the hunter's whereabouts. An- 
other quarter of an hour, and Prunty left his log to 
seek the high lookout of Kogar's Hill. And getting 
there after a slow tramp, he sat again to wait. 

Nearly an hour in all had gone, when down in the 
swale by the branch that fed the Kogar's Creek 
he heard mixed sounds of something moving in the 
low woods, and he made for the place. 

After a short time he stopped to listen, and 
heard only the "jay, jay" of the Bluejay. Then 
once in the silence came the unmistakable shrill- 
ing of a pig in distress, the call for help. Once it 
came, and all was still. 

Prunty pushed forward as quickly as he could, 
and as silently. He was nearing the open woods 
along the Kogar's Creek. 

There were confused noises ahead, sounds of 
action rather than of voices, but sometimes there 
came voices, too: animal voices, voices that told 
of many and divers living things. 

79 




Foam— A RazoHBacked Hog 



_ -_ hq^. - . 




..j 



Prunty conjured up all the woodcraft of his 
youth. He sneaked as a Panther sneaks, lifting a 
foot and setting it down again only after the 
ground was proven safe and silent. He wet his 
finger to study the wind, or tossed up grass to 
Jjii* 3 show the breeze, and changed about so as to make 
~~y an unannounced approach. He strode swiftly 
in the open places, and looking well to his rifle 
came through a final thicket where a huge down 
tree afforded a high and easy outlook, and mount- 
ing its level trunk he saw the setting for a thrill- 
ing scene — a face to face array of force, like hosts 
arrayed for battle in the olden times, awaiting but 
the word of onset. 

There, black and fierce, was a Bear, a Bear of 
biggest bulk, standing half out in the open, and 
facing him some dozen steps away was a Boar, a 
Razor-back of the tallest size, but smaller than the 
Bear, and bearing a long scar on his face. Behind 
and beside the Boar was a lesser Razor-back, with 
the finer snout and shorter tusks of the female. 
Hiding in the near thicket of alder were others of 
their breed. At first Prunty thought but two or 
three, then more were seen, some very small, till 
it seemed a little crowd, not still, but moving and 
changing here and there. 
Then the Bear strode in a circle toward the other 



80 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

side of the bush, but the Boar swung round between, 
and the little pigs, rushing away from the fearsome 
brute, made many a squeak and haste to move, 
went quickly indeed, save one, who dragged him- 
self like a cripple; and red streaks there were on his 
flank as well as a dark smear on his neck. 

Thus the pair stood facing, each still and silent 
Just a little curl there was on the scabby nose of the 
big Bear, for this was the brute of Kogar's Creek, 
and sometimes deep in his chest he rumbled as you 
hear the thunder rumble in the hills to say it will be 
with ye soon. And the Boar, high standing on his 
wide-braced legs, made bigger by the standing 
mane on his crested back, his snout held low, his 
twinkling eyes alert, his great tusks gleaming, and 
his jaws going "chop, chop" till the foam that gave 
him his baby name was flecked on the massive 
jowl. 

The little pigs in the thicket uttered apprehen- 
sive grunts, but the big one bade his time, without 
a sound save the "chop" or "click" of his war 
gear. 

There was a minute of little action, as the great 
ones stood, prepared, and face to face. 

Who can measure the might of their moving 
thoughts: the Bear urged only by revenge or the 
lust of food, and backed by many little victories; 

81 




Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

the Boar responding to the scream for help that stirs 
the fighting Boar as the fire bell stirs the fire hall 
horse, hastening with all the self-forgetfulness of a 
noble nature to help one of his kind, and finding 
it one of his brood, his very own, and, more, being 
harried indeed by one he held in lifelong hate? 
Thus every element was here supplied for a fright- 
ful clash. Power, mighty power, lust, insanity, and 
a doubtful courage, against lesser power with match- 
less courage, and the lungs and limbs of a warrior 
trained — Kogar's Bear and Foam of the Prunty 
Farm. 

The big Bear moved slowly to one side, then 
swung in a circle around the bush, whether to make 
a flank attack on the Boar, or to strike at the young, 
mattered not; for each way the great hog swung 
between, resolute, head down, wasting no force in 
mere bluster, silent but waiting, undismayed. 

Then the Bear moved to the other side, mounted 
a log, grunted, was minded to charge, put one paw 
down this side the log, and Foam charged him. The 
Bear sprang back. The Boar refrained. Another 
swing, a feint, and the Bear rushed in. Ho! Scab- 
face, guard yourself, this is no tender youngling 
you've engaged. 

Thud thud — thud — went the Bear's huge paws, 
and deep, short animal gasps of effort came. The 

82 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

Boar's broad back, all bristle-clad, received the 
blows; they staggered but did not down him, and 
his white knives flashed with upward slash, the 
stroke that seeks the vitals where they are least 
ingirt with proof. The champions reeled apart. 
The Boar was bruised, but the Bear had half a 
dozen 



^ 



& 



&D 



7& 

7/ c^-^v 



bleeding rips. Great sighs, or sobs, or heavy^^T ^ f,' ST" 

dngs there were from these, but from the ' -** < ^ «-, ^- 



brea things 

crowded younglings just behind, a very chorus of 

commingled fear and wrath. 

This was the first, the blooding of the fight, and 
now they faced and swung this way and that. 
Each knew or seemed to know the other's game. 
The Boar must keep his feet or he was lost, the Bear 
must throw the Boar and get a death grip with his 
paws ere with his hinder feet he could tear him 
open. The battle madness was on both. 

Circling for a better chance went Kogar's, con- 
fronted still by the Boar. Again they closed, and 
the Bear, flinging all his bulk on Foam, would have 
thrown him by his weight, but the Boar was stout 
and rip-ripped at the soggy belly, till the Bear 
flinched, curled, and shrank in pain. Again and 
again they faced, sparring for an opening. The 
Bear felt safer on the log. On that he stood, and 
strode and feinted a charge, till Foam, impatient 
for the finish, forward rushed. The log was in the 

83 






Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 

way. He overleaped it, but this was not his field. 
The trunks that helped the Bear were baulks to 
him. Again they closed, and springing on his back 
the Bear heaved down with all his might. Slash, 
slash, went those long, keen, ivory knives. The 
Bear was gushing blood, but Foam was going down; 
the fight was balanced, but the balance turning for 
the Bear. When silent, save for the noise of rush- 
ing, another closed, another struck the Bear — Grizel 
was on him with her force, the slashing of her knives 
was quick and fast; the Bear lurched back. She 
seized his hinder paw and crunched and hauled; 
Foam heaved the monster from his back, and turned 
and slashed and tore. The Bear went down! 
Oh, Furies of the woods! What storm of fight! 
The silent knives or their click — the deep-voiced 
sob of pain and straining, the half-choked roar, the 
weakening struggle back, the gasp of reddened 
spray,, the final plunge to escape, the slash, the 
tear, the hopeless wail — and down went Kogar's 
with two like very demons tearing, rending, carving. 
He clutched a standing tree-trunk that seemed to 
offer refuge. They dragged him down. They 
slashed his hairy sides till his ribs were grated bare. 
They rent his belly open, they strung his bowels 
out over the log like wrack weed in a storm. They 
knived and heaved till the dull screams died, all 

84 



Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog: 

movement ceased, and a bloody, muddy mass was 
all that was left of the Kogar's Bear. 

And Prunty gazed like one who had no thought 
of time or space, or any consciousness but this: he 
was fighting that fight himself. He watched the 
strong hog warrior win, and felt the victory was his 
own. He loved him: yes, loved him as a man of 
strength must love a brave, hard fighter. He saw 
the great, big-hearted brute come quickly to him- 
self, turn wholly calm, and the little pigs come fear- 
fully to root and tear at the fallen foe, then rush 
away in fright at some half -fancied sign of life. 
He saw the gentleness the mates showed each to 
each, and ever there were little things that told of 
a bond of family love. Animal, physical love, if 
ye will, but the love that endures and fights, and 
still endures. And the man looked down at the 
thing that his hands were clutching, the long, shiny, 
deadly thing for murder wrought, and ready now 
prepared. A little sense of shame came on him, 
and it grew. "He saved my liP gel, and this was 
my git-back." Then, again, with power returned 
the feelings of the day when his Lizette, the only 
thing he had on earth to love, came home ablaze 
to tell of the rattlesnake fight — with power these 
feelings came, and he was deeply moved as then. 
Her words had sudden value now. Yes, she was 

85 cm 

M 



u 



sr;- 



im— s. 



Jfr*****S&2^ 






Foam — A Razor-Backed Hog 

• /*\ right. There were other and better ways to save 

y --r, %L \ thecro P s - 

* A ' £ aE-*" ' ^ s mamnsn j°y i 11 f° rce an( i fight rose in him 

; / ^ 3 V strong, and he blustered forth : " Gosh, what a scrap ! 

J j ^\ \* ^ } That was the satisfyingest fight I ever seen. My! 

>*kIc#\. N^ ^ijjf ,% how they tore and heaved! Kill him? Gosh! you 

bet, for me, he can roam the swamps till he dies of 

a gray old age." 



The great Boar's mate turned now to lead the 
brood away. They rollicked off in quick forget- 
fulness, the wounded one came last, except that very 
last of all was Foam, with many rips that stood 
for lifelong scars, but strength unspent; and as he 
swung, he stopped, and glancing back, he saw his 
foe was still, quite still, so went. 

The frond ferns closed the trail, the curtain 
dropped. And the Vultures swung and swung on 
angle wings, for here indeed was a battlefield, and a 
battlefield means feasting. 



86 









-S 







in 

Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon of 
Kilder Creek 

OTHER Nature, All-mother, maker 
s of the woods, that made and re- 
* jected the Bear — too big, the Deer — 
! too obvious and too helpless in 
Py snow, the Wolf — too fierce and 
flesh-devouring, not deeming them 
the spirit of the timberland, and still 
essayed, till the Coon-Raccoon, the black-masked 
wanderer of the night and the tall timber, respon- 
sive from the workshop, came; and dowered him 
with the Dryad's gifts, a harmless dweller in the 
hollow oak, the spirit of the swamps remotest from 
the plow, the wandering voice that redmen know, 
that white men hear with superstitious dread. 

Oh, help thy Singing Woodsman tell about the 
Coon, his kindness, his fortitude, his joy in his 
hollow tree, that the farmer spared because it wa? 
so hollow, and about the song he sings as he wau- 

89 




*\ / Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

Y / 

'/ ders in the night, and why he sings, and why the 

1 ) woodsman loves his wild and screaming yaup, even 

"\ as he loves the Indian Song that holds in its bars 

\\ the spirit of the burning wood. 

£, If you will help him tell these things and make 

J' them touch the world as they have touched him, 

w ; the unspeakable forester shall not work to the bitter 

if end his sordid way, the hollow tree shall stand, and 

v the ring- tailed hermit of the woods not pass away, 

• nor his wind-song in the Mad Moon cease. 

If he has a message, we know it not in formal 
phrase, but this perhaps: He is symbol of the things 
that certain kindly natures love; and if the nation's 
purblind councillors win their evil way, so his 
hollow tree with himself should meet its doom, it 
means the final conquest of the final corner of our 
land by the dollar and its devotees. Grant I may 
long be stricken down before it comes. 

THE HOME-SEEKERS 

March, with its ranks of crows and rolling drum 
calls from the woodwale, was coming in different 
moods to own the woods. The sun had gone, and 
a soft starlight on the slushy snow was bright 
enough for the keen eyes of the wood-prowlers. 
Two of them came; quickly they passed along a 
lying trunk, through the top of the fallen tree, 

90 



m MP. 






A 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

across the snow to follow each convenient log as a 
sort of sidewalk. They were large animals — that 
is, larger than a Fox — of thick form, with bushy- 
tails on which the keen night eyes of a passing Owl 
could see the dark bars, the tribal flag of their kind. 

The leader was smaller than the other, and at 
times showed a querulous impatience, a disposition 
to nip at the big one following, and yet seemed not 
to seek escape. The big one came behind with 
patient forbearance. The singing woodsman, had 
he seen them, would have understood: these were 
mates. Obedient to the animal rule, all arrange- 
ments for the coming brood were in the mother's 
control. She must go forth to seek the nursing 
den; she must know the very time; she alone is 
pilot of this cruise. He is there merely to fight in 
case they meet some foe. 

Down through the alder thicket by the stream 
and underbrush, and on till they reached the great 
stretch of timber that was left because the land was 
low and poor. Much of it was ancient growth, and 
the Coon-Raccoon — the mother soon to be — passed 
quickly from one great trunk to another, seeking, 
seeking — what? 

The woodsman knows that a hollow pine is rare, 
a hollow maple often happens, and a hollow bass- 
wood is the rule. He might have found the har- 

9i 




"Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

'boring trunk in broad daylight, for a hollow tree 
has a dead top, but in the gloom the Coon seemed 
to go from one great column to the next with cer- 
tainty, and knew without climbing them if they were 
not for her; and at last by the bend where the creek 
and river join, she climbed the huge dead maple, 
like one who knows. 

This is the perfect lodgment of Coon-Raccoon — 
high up some mighty, towering tree in some deep, 
dangerous swamp, near running water with its 
magic and its foods, a large, convenient chamber, 
dry and lined with softest rotten wood, a tight-fit 
doorway, and near it some great branch which gets 
the sun's full blaze in day. This is the perfect home, 
and this was what the mother Coon had found. 

THE HOME 

In April the brood had come, five little ones, 
ring-tailed and black-masked like their parents. 
Their baby time was gone, and now in June they 
were old enough to come out on bright days, and 
sit in a row on the big limb that was their sunning 
place. Very early in life their individual char- 
acters appeared. There was the timid one whose 
tail was a ring too short, the fat gray one that was 
last to leave the nest, and the very black-masked 
one who was big, restless, and ready to do anything 

92 




rs*^*** 



usi rstAsi) 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

but keep quiet, the one that afterward was named 
Way-atcha. In their cuddling nursery days the 
rules of Coon life are simple. Eat, grow, keep 
quiet — all the rest is mother's business. But once 
they are old enough to leave the nest they begin to 
have experiences and learn the other rules. 

The sunning perch was free for all, and the 
youngsters were allowed to climb higher in the 
tree among the small branches, but below the nest 
was a great expanse of trunk without any bark 
on, and quite smooth, a very difficult and dan- 
gerous place to climb, and whenever one of the 
youngsters made a move downward, mother ordered 
him back in sharp, angry tones. 

Way-atcha (his mother called him "Wirrr" the 
same as the others, but with a little more vigor to 
it) had been warned back twice or thrice, but that 
made him more eager to try the forbidden climb. 
His mother was inside as he slid below the sunning 
limb on the rough bark and on to the smooth trunk. ><«4v$£& rr\ 



"\ 



It was twenty times too big for his arms to grip, 

and down he went, clutching at anything within \ 

reach — crash, scramble, down, down, down, and 

splash into the deep water below. ^ 

Startled by the sudden gasp of the others, the 
mother hurried forth to see her eldest splashing 
in the brook. She hurried to the rescue, but the 

93 









Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

stream lodged him against a sandbar, he scrambled 
out little the worse, and made for the home tree. 
Mother was halfway down, but seeing him climb 
she returned to the row of eager faces on the branch 
above. 

Way-atcha went up bravely till he reached the 
tall smooth trunk where there was no bark, and 
here he absolutely failed, and giving way to his 
despair, uttered a long, whining whimper. Mother 
was back at the hole, but she turned now and 
coming down, took Way-atcha by the neck rather 
roughly, placed him between her own forelegs, 
carried him round the smooth trunk to the side 
where there were two cracks that gave a claw-hold, 
and there boosted and kept him from falling while 
she spanked him all the way home. 

SCHOOLING THE CHILDREN 

It was two weeks later or more before mother 
judged it time to take them down into the big world, 
and then she waited for a full moon. Old Coons 
can do very well on a black night, but they need 
some light, especially at the beginning of the young 
one's training. 

Father went down first to be ready, in case some 
'/enemy was near, and now the youngsters were 
(taught the trick of the smooth trunk. There 

94 







Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

was only one place to climb it safely: that was 
where the two cracks made it possible to get claw- 
holds well apart. Mother went first to show the 
way, and the youngsters followed behind. 

Everything was new and surprising to them, 
everything had to be smelt and handled, stones, 
logs, grass, the ground, the mud, and, above all 
things, the water. The bright uncatchable water 
was puzzling to all except of course Way-atcha 
who knew, or thought he knew it, already. 

The youngsters were full of glee, they chased 
each other along logs and tumbled each other into 
little holes, but mother had brought them for 
something more serious. They had to get their 
first lesson in earning a living, and this she gave 
them mainly by example. 

Have you ever seen a Coon feeding? His way 
is to stand by a pool, put in both hands, groping 
in the mud with quick and sensitive fingers, hunt- 
ing for frogs, fish, crabs, etc., while his eyes rove 
the woods far and near, right and left, to look for 
other chances or to guard against possible enemies. 
This was mother's way, and the youngsters looked 
on, more interested in the catch than in the mode. 

Then they crowded up close to see better, which 
meant they lined up along the water's edge. It 
was so natural to put their hands in the water that 

95 



y t 




Mm. 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

at once they were doing as mother did. What a 
curious sensation to feel the mud sliding between 
one's fingers; then perhaps a root like a string, 
then a round soft root that wriggles. What a thrill 
it gives! For instinctively one knows that that 
is game, that is what we are here for. And Way- 
atcha, who made the find, clutched the pollywog 
without being told, seized it in his teeth and got 
chiefly a mouthful of mud and sand. He sput- 
tered out everything, mud, pollywog, and all. 
Mother took the flopping silver-belly, gravely 
washed it in the clear water, and gave it back to 
be gobbled by Way-atcha. Now he knew. Thence- 
forth he dropped easily into the habit of his race, 
and every bite was religiously washed and cleaned 
before being eaten. The shy brother with the 
short tail was too timid to go far from mother, 
and what he learned was little. The other two 
were quarrelling over a perfectly worthless old 
bone. Each "found it first," and the winner had 
a barren victory. Gray back was far out on a log 
over the water, trying to claw out the reflection 
of the moon, but Way-atcha, intoxicated by suc- 
cess, was now keen to keep on hunting. Down 
along the muddy margin he paddled, eagerly glanc- 
ing this way and that, just like mother, feeling 
in all the mud, straining it through his fingers, just 

96 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

like mother, lifting up a double handful to smell, 
just like mother, clutching at some worthless root 
that seemed to wriggle, then sputtering it out with 
a growl, just like father. It was fun, every bit of it, 
and when at length his active little fingers clutched 
the unmistakable smooth and wriggly body of a 
frog that was hiding in the mud, Way-atcha got 
such a thrill of joy that all the hair on his back stood 
up, and he gave the warwhoop of the Coon-Rac- 
coon, which is nothing more than a growl and a snort 
all mixed up together. It was a moment of tri- 
umph, but Way-atcha did not forget the first lesson, 
and that frog was washed as clean as water could 
make him before the hunter had his feast. 

This was intensely exciting, there was limitless 
joy in view, but a sudden noise from father changed 
it all. He had been scouting far down the river 
bank while the youngsters played along the creek 
near mother. Now he gave a signal that mother 
knew too well, a low puff, like "Foof," followed 
by a deep grunt. Mother called the youngsters 
with a low grunting. They knew nothing at all 
of what it was about, but the sense of alarm had 
spread instantly among them, and a minute or 
two later there was a regular procession of furry 
balls climbing the great maple, following the two 
cracks, right up to tumble into their comfortable bed. 



/ Y 



97 



< t 




"W&y-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

Faraway down the river came a deep booming 
sound, the roaring of some terrible animal, no 
doubt. Mother listened to it from the door. Pres- 
ently father came scrambling up the trunk a little 
wet, because he had swum the river, after laying 
a trail to take the enemy away, and had come 
home by a new road along the top of a fence, so 
that no trail was left and the baying of that awful 
hound was lost faraway in the woods. 

That night Way-atcha had met and felt some 
of the big things that shape a Coon's life: the 
moonlight hunt, the vigilant mother, the righting 
father, the terrible hound, the safe return home 
protected by a break in the trail. But he did 
not think about it. He remembered only the joy 
of clutching that fat, wriggling, juicy frog, and next 
night he was eager to be away on another hunt. 

THE MYSTERIOUS WARNING 

Many animals have a sixth sense, a something 
that warns them that there is danger about, a 
something that men once had, and called "a far 
sense of happenings" or a "sense of luck." This 
seems to be strongest in mothers when they have 
their young. And when the next night came Way- 
atcha's mother felt uneasy. There was something 
wrong. She delayed going down the round stair- 

98 




• I 



Way-Atcha, the Coon -Raccoon 

way and lay watching and listening on the sunning 
branch till every one was very cross and hungry. 
Way-atcha was simply overcome with impatience.^ <= 
Father went down the trunk but soon came up 
again. The children whimpered, but mother 
refused to budge. Her quick ears were turned 
once or twice toward the river, but nothing of 
note was heard or seen. The moon had set, and 
at length in the darkest hours the mother led her 
family down the big trunk. All were hungry, 
and they rushed heedlessly along the bank, dab- 
bling and splashing. Then Way-atcha caught a 
frog, and little Ring Short a pollywog. Then all 
had caught frogs, and it seemed the whole world 
was one big joyous hunt without a care or a 
worry. 

Now out on a sandbar Way-atcha found a new 
kind of frog. It looked like tw r o flat bones lying 
side by side, but the smell was pleasant. He 
reached out, and at once the two bones closed to- 
gether on his toes, squeezing them so hard that he 
squalled out, "Mother, Mother!" Mother came 
running to help, of course, while Way-atcha danced 
up and down in pain and fear. But the old one 
had seen mussel clams before. She seized the 
hard thing in her teeth, crushed the hinge side, and 
ended the trouble. Now Way-atcha had the 

99 




Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

pleasure of picking out the meat from the sharp 
bits of shell, washing them clean in the river, and 
gobbling them as a new kind of frog, and every- 
thing seemed very well to him. 

But father climbed a root and snuffed, sniffed, 
and listened, and mother studied all the smells 
and trails that were along the pathway farther 
from the river bank. She had had little time for 
hunting. Her secret sense was strong on her, and 
she gave the signal to return. 

The youngsters followed very unwillingly. Way- 
atcha was almost rebellious. There seemed in his 
judgment to be every reason for staying and none 
whatever for going home. But the best of judg- 
ment must yield to superior force. Mother's paws 
were strong and father could be very rough. So 
the seven fur balls mounted the smooth maple stair- 
t way as before. 

The Red Fox of the hillside yapped three times, a 
little song sparrow sang aloud in his dreams not 
far from the great maple, and the Coon mother 
heard without heeding. Then later came another 
sound, quite low and distant, feeble indeed. The 
young seemed not to hear it, but it set the mother's 
hair on end. It was a different note, coming from 
anywhere in the north: the harmless wind made 
just such noises at times, but in this were also sharp 

too 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

cracks, like blows struck on wood, and once or 
twice yelps that must have been from dogs. 

The sounds came nearer and louder, red stars ap- 
peared among the trees, and soon a band of men out 
with dogs came menacing every living prowler in 
the woods. The fresh Fox track down below di- 
verted the attention of the dogs so they did not 
come near the Coon tree, and mother knew that 
they had escaped a great danger that night. 

THE HUNTERS 

The following evening Mother Coon looked forty 
ways and sniffed every breeze that blew, while the 
moon swung past four trees quite near the door 
before she would let the family go on their regular 
hunt. They supposed, of course, she would lead 
down the usual way by the creek, but she did not. 
She moved in a new direction upstream, nor would 
she stop to hunt, but pushed on. They reached a 
stretch of bank where frogs went jump, jump, at 
every bank of sedge. It seemed most promising, 
but mother still pushed on. Then a loud noise 
like rising wind was heard, only sometimes it 
splashed like a frog or even a muskrat. Then they 
came to the thing that made it, the creek itself, 
jumping over a rocky ledge into a pool, sparkling in 
the moonrays, noisy in the night. Mother held 
101 







Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

them back a little while she looked hard ahead and 
around. Then she crouched; her hair rose up; she 
growled. Father came alongside. The youngsters 
had no desire now to rush ahead. There around 
the water so full of game were other hunters, splash- 
ing, catching frogs, and feasting. They were in 
size like Way-atcha's people, and when the tail of 
one was turned there surely were the seven rings 
that make the tribal flag of Coon-Raccoon. 

But some one was trespassing. Which family 
owned this hunting? That is always a serious 
question in the woods. Father Coon stood up very 
high on his legs, puffed out his hair, and walked 
forward from the cover, along the open margin. 
There was a noisy rush of the other family, then 
three young in it went whimpering to their mother, 
and their father stood up high, puffed out his hair, 
and came marching stiffly and openly toward Way- 
atcha's father. Each gave a low growl, which 
meant, "Here you, get out of this or I'll make you! " 
Then, since neither got out, they squared up face 
to face. Each felt that he himself was right, and 
the other all wrong. Each felt that he must protect 
his family and drive the trespassers away; and so 
they stood and glared at each other, while the young 
ones of each crowded closely behind their mothers. 

This is the animal law of range. The first finder 

I02 



ISA 









\>i ■ 

li! S i 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

owns it, if he marks it at leading points, using for 
this the scent glands near the tail that nature gave 
for just such purposes. If two hunters have equal 
claims, they fight, and the stronger holds it. Way- 
atcha's people, as it chanced, had not marked the 
hunting ground for weeks, so their musk marks were 
nearly washed away. The other family came later, 
but had used it much, and marked it, too. The 
rival claims were balanced. No tiring now but a 
fight could settle it. 

And this is the Coon's chief mode of fight: close 
on the enemy, offering the well-defended neck or 
shoulders to his attack, seize him around the waist 
and throw him so he will fall on you; for the under 
Coon has the best chance to rip open his enemy's 
belly with hind claws, which are free; holding him 
with fore claws which are free, his teeth have free 
play at the enemy's throat, which is exposed. 

So Way-atcha's black-masked sire came edging 
on, a little sidewise, and the Coon of the Pool having 
sized up the other as bigger than himself, held back 
a little, fearing to close at once. 

Old Black Mask made a pass; the Pool Coon 
parried. They dodged round and round, neither 
gaining nor giving ground. Another pass, then 
Black Mask's footing slipped, the Pool Coon closed, 
and the fight was on. But neither got the grip he 

103 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 



sought. Their powers were nearly even. They 
rolled and tugged, while their families squalled, 
and in a moment both went reeling, and splash, into 
the deep, cool pool. There is nothing like cool 
water for cooling. The fighters broke apart, and 
when they scrambled out they both felt a wonderful 
change. They had no more desire to fight. Each 
now was indifferent to the fact that the other was 
hunting on his grounds. They were in truth cooled 
off. 

There were some angry looks perhaps, and a few 
low growls, but each with his family set about hunt- 
ing round the pond, one keeping the thickwood 
side, the other the open side. 

This was the beginning, and in time they all be- 
came good friends, for the hunting was plenty for 
both. The children feasted till their bodies were 
quite round in front and they were glad once more 
to climb their big smooth tree. 

THE WAYWARD CHILD 

Way-atcha strongly disapproved of many things 
his mother did. If she wished to go downstream 
when his plan was to go up, she must be wrong. If 
she was hindered by some trifling noise from going 
to get supper at supper time, it meant senseless 
annoyance for all. If she was afraid of that curi- 



104 




-^S 



i 1 






i 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

ous musky smell on a stone by the shore, well ! he 
was not, and that was all about it. 

They had gone for their usual supper hunt one 
night. After smelling the wind, mother had de- 
cided on going downstream, but Way-atcha had been 
enjoying visions of the pool with its varied game. 

He held back, and when his mother called, he 
had followed only a little way. Then his keen eyes 
sighted a movement in the edge of the near water. 
He sprang on it with the vigor of a growing hunter, 
and dragged out a fine big crawfish. Then he pro- 
ceeded to wash it thoroughly and ate it body and 
bones, not heeding the call of his mother as she led 
the others away. He was perfectly delighted with 
himself for this small victory, and felt so set up and 
independent that he turned in spite of mother's 
invitation and set out to visit the upper pool as 
he had planned. 

After one or two little captures he reached the 
jumping water. That very day another visitor 
had been there. Indian Pete, a trapper, had found 
the pool, and all about it had seen the tracks of 
Coon and Muskrat. At this season fur is worth- 
less, but Pete used these creatures for his food, so 
hid a big steel trap in the mud, and on a little stick 
farther out in the water he rubbed a rag with a 
mixture of animal oils and musk. 



105 






Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

Ho, ho! there it was again, that very smell that 
poor timid mother was in such fear of. Now he 
; would examine it. He came down to the place, 
\ then sniffed about, yielded to his habit of feeling 
r ^^in the mud as he glanced this way and that, when 
^snap, splash, and Way-atcha was a prisoner held 
** ' firmly by one paw in a horrible trap of steel. 

Now he thought of mother, and raised the long 
soft whicker that is the call of his kind, but mother 
was far away. He himself had made sure of that, 
and he remembered the clam shell, but all his 
efforts to pull away or bite off that horrid^ hard 
thing were useless; there it clung to his paw, and 
hanging to it was a sort of strong twisted root that 
held him there. All night long in vain he whick- 
ered, whimpered, and struggled. He was worn out 
and hoarse as the sun came up, and when Indian 
Pete came around he was surprised to find in his 
Muskrat trap a baby Coon, nearly dead with cold 
and fright, and so weak that he couldn't even bite. 

The trapper took the little creature from the 
trap and put him alive in his pocket, not knowing 
exactly what he meant to do with him. 

On the road home he passed by the Pigott home- 
stead and showed his captive to the children. 

The little Coon was still cold and miserable, and 
when put into the warm arms of the oldest girl he 

1 06 






-n" 



Way~Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

snuggled up so contentedly that he won her heart 
and she coaxed her father into buying Way-atcha, /\<"- •• X 
as the Indian named the captive in his own tongue. I y "^ \ 

Thus the wanderer found a new and very differ- \ ; \s^ ^/ : 
ent home. He was so well taken care of here that \\ ^\^'* // 
ir a few days he was all right again. He had chil- ^V^^t"^^ - -» 
dren to play with instead of brothers and sisters, 
and many curious things to eat instead of frogs, ' /Sf ^ 
but still he loved to dabble his own brown paws • 
in the mud or anything wet whenever he could get 
the chance. He did not eat milk and bread like a 
cat or other well-behaved creature; he always put 
in his paws to fish out the bread, bit by bit, and 
commonly ended by spilling the milk. 

A MERRY LIFE ON THE FARM 

There was one member of the household that 
Way-atcha held in great fear; that was Roy the 
sheep-dog, house-dog, watch-dog, and barnyard 
guard in general. When first they met Roy 
growled and Way-atcha chirred. Both showed in 
the bristling shoulder hair that they were deeply 
moved; each in the smell of the other was instinc- 
tively aware of an enemy in an age-long war. The 
Pigott children had to exercise their right of eminent 
domain to keep the peace; but the peace was kept. 
Roy learned to tolerate the Coon in time, the Coon 

107 




< 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

became devotedly fond of Roy, and not two weeks 
had gone before Way-atcha's usual napping couch 
was right on Roy's furry breast, deep in the wool, 
cuddled up with all the dog's four legs drawn close 
against him. 

As he grew stronger he became very mischievous. 
He seemed half monkey, half kitten, full of fun 
always, delighted to be petted, and always hungry, 
and soon learned where to look for dainties. The 
children used to keep goodies in their pockets for 
him, and he learned that fact so well that when a 
stranger came to the house Way-atcha would 
gravely climb up his legs and seek in all his pockets 
for something to eat. 

On one occasion he had been missing for some 
hours, always a suspicious fact. When Mrs. 
Pigott went into the storeroom, stocked now with 
the summer preserves, she was greeted with the 
whining call of Way-atcha, more busy than words 
can tell. There he was wallowing up to his eyes 
in plum jam, digging down into a crock of it like 
a washwoman into her tubs, feeling and groping 
for what? He had gorged himself till he could 
eat no more, and now prompted by his ancient 
woodland memories he was gropping with his paws 
among the jam and juice to capture all the plum 
stones, each in turn to be examined and cast aside. 

108 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

The floor was dotted with stones, the shelf was 
plastered with the jam of the many pots examined. 
The Coon was unrecognizable except for his bright 
eyes and face, but he came waddling, whining, 
slushing down from the shelf across the floor to 
climb up Mrs. Pigott's dress, assured, he believed, 
of a cordial welcome. Alas! what a cruel disap- 
pointment he got! 

One day Mr. Pigott set a hen with thirteen eggs. 
The next day Way-atcha was missing. As they 
went about calling him by name they heard a faint 
reply from the hen-house, the gentle " whicker' ' 
that he usually gave in answer. On opening the 
door, there they saw Way-atcha sprawling on his 
back in the hen's nest perfectly gorged, and the 
remains of the thirteen eggs told that he was re- 
sponsible for a piece of shocking destruction. Roy 
was the proper guardian of the hen-house. No 
tramp, no Fox, no Coon from the woods could enter 
that while he was on guard. But alas! for the con- 
flict of love and duty: in his perplexity the dog had 
unwittingly followed the plan of a certain great 
man who said, "In case of doubt, be friendly." 

Farmer Pigott bore with Way-atcha for long 
because the children were so fond of the little 
rascal. But the climax was reached one day when 
the Coon, left alone in the house, discovered the .** 

109 



4 \ 



Vv JO. J )/ 



Z»&* f/^<& 






Wa7~Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

ink bottle. First he drew the cork and spilled 
the ink about, then he dabbled his paws in it after 
his usual manner, and found a new pleasure in 
laying the inky paws on anything that would take 
a good paw-mark. At first he made these marks 
on the table, then he foimd that the children's 
school books were just the things and gave much 
better results. He paw-marked them inside and 
out, and the incidental joy of dabbling in the wet 
resulted in frequent re-inking of his paws. Then 
the wall paper seemed to need touching up. This 
lead to the window curtains and the girls' dresses, 
and then as the bedroom door was open Way- 
atcha scrambled on the bed. It was just beautiful 
the way that snow-white coverlet took the dear 
little paw-marks as he galloped over it in great 
glee. He was several hours alone, and he used up 
all the ink, so that when the children came in from 
school it looked as though a hundred little Coons 
had been running all over the place and leaving 
black paw-marks. Poor Mrs. Pigott actually 
cried when she saw her beautiful bed, the pride 
of her heart. But she had to relent when Coonie 
came running to her just the same as usual, hold- 
ing out his inky arms and whining "errr err" to be 
taken up and petted as though he were the best 
little Coon in lie world. 

zio 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

But this was too much. Even the children had 
no excuse to offer; their dresses were ruined. 
Way-atcha must go; and so it came about that 
Indian Pete was sent for. Way-atcha did not • 
like the looks of this man, but he had no choice. 
He was bundled into a sack and taken away by * *rZ 
the half-breed, much to Roy's bewilderment, for 
he disliked the half-breed and despised his dog. 
Why they should let that stranger carry off a member 
of his family was a puzzle. Roy growled a little, 
sniffed hard at the hunter's legs, and watched him 
without a tailwag as he went off with the bulging 
bag. 

THE ANCIENT FOE 

It was the end of summer now, the Hunting 
Moon was at hand; the hunter had a new hound 
to train, and here was the chance to train him on 
Coon. Way-atcha had no claim on Peter's af- 
fection, and nothing educates a dog for Coon so 
much as taking part in a Coon run and kill. 

This was then to be the end of Way-atcha. The 
trapper would use him, sacrifice him, to train his 
hunting dog. As he neared his shanty that dog 
came bounding forth, a lumbering half-breed hound, 
with a noisy yap which he uttered threefold when 
he sniffed the sack that held Way-atcha. 
in 




Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

And this was the way of the two: in the log 

stable the Coon was given a box, or little kennel, 

where he could at least save his life from the dog. 

/ ^L fa \ '" Howler was brought in on a chain and encouraged 

' i*r Nif / to attack the Coon with loud "sic hims." Brave 



fr 



S A 




\^ &J as a lion, seeing so small a foe, he rushed forward, 

but was held back with the chain, for it was not 

time for a "kill." Many times he charged, to be 

«^_^ restrained by his master. 

W** *^" Way-atcha was utterly puzzled. Why should 

/ jfa***' those other two-legged things be so kind and this 

/</{->, so hostile? Why should Roy be so friendly and 

^Jj *5T ^ s y e ^ ow brute so wicked and cruel? Each time 

>^-^ ^ the big dog charged, poor little Way-atcha felt in 

• 'ffiflls^^^*' n ^ m tne % nt i n S spirit of his valiant race stirred 

up, and faced the brute snarling and showing all 

his teeth. 

But he would quickly have been done to death 
by the foe had not the half-breed held the chain. 
Only once was the dog allowed to close. He seized 
the Coon cub by the neck to give the death shake, 
but nature gave the Coon a strong, loose skin. 
The shake was scarcely felt, and Way-atcha clamped 
his teeth on Howler's leg with a grip that made him 
yell; then the half-breed dragged the dog away. 
That was enough for lesson No. i. Now they 
hated each other; the bitter feud was on. 




112 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

Next day a lesson was given again for both, and 
both learned other things: Way-atcha that that 
hole, the kennel, was a safe refuge; the cur, that 
the Coon could clutch as well as bite. 

The third day came and the third lesson. Wait- 
ing for the cool of the evening, the hunter dropped 
the Coon into a bag, took down his gun, called 
the noisy dog, and made for the nearest stretch 
of woods, for the trailing and treeing of the Coon 
was to be the climax of the course of training. 

Arrived at the timberland, Pete's first care was 
to tie the dog to a tree. Why? Certainly not 
out of consideration for the Coon, but for this: 
the Coon must be allowed to run and get out of 
sight, otherwise the dog does not try to follow it 
by track. Once he has to do this to find his prey, 
his own instinctive prompting makes him a trailer 
and he follows till he sights the quarry, then at- 
tacks, or if it trees, as is usual, he must ramp and 
rage against the trunk to let the hunter know tne 
Coon is there. This is the training of a Coon dog; 
this was the plan of Indian Pete. 

So the dog was chained to a sapling; the Coon 
was carried out of reach, and tumbled from the 
sack. Bewildered at first, but brave, he glared 
about, then seeing his tall enemy quite near he 
rushed open-mouthed at him. The half-breed 

"3 



rfT-. 






ii 



p 



"Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

ran away in some alarm, but laughing. The dog 
rushed at the Coon till the chain brought him up 
with a jerk, and now the Coon was free from all 
attack, was free to run. And then how he ran! 
With the quick instinct of a hunted race, he dashed 
away behind a tree to get out of sight, and, zig- 
zagging, bounded off, seeking the thickest cover, 
running as he never had run before. 

Back came the half-breed to release the dog. 
Tight as a guy-rope was the chain that held that 
crazy, raging cur, so tight the chain that he could 
not get the little slack he needed to unhook the 
snap. Cursing the dog, jerking him back again 
and again, he fumbled to unhook the snap; and 
as he jerked and shouted, the dog jerked more 
and barked, so made it harder. Two or three 
minutes indeed he struggled to release the chain, 
and then he had to catch and hold the dog so as 
to free him by slipping his collar. Away went the 
dog to the place where last he saw the Coon. 

But the victim was gone; those precious three 
minutes meant so much, and responsive to the 
hunter's "sic him" "sic hiir" the dog raced around. 
His nostrils found the trau, instinctively he yelped, 
then followed it, at every bound a yelp. Then he 
lost it, came back, found it again, and yelped, 
and slowly followed, or if he went too fast he lost 
114 






*Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

it. And Pete ran, too, shouting encouragement, 
for all of this was in the plan. The Coon no doubt 
was running off, but soon the dog would find him, 
and then — oh, it never fails — the Coon climbs up 
the easiest tree, which means a small one always; 
the dog by yapping down below would guide the 
man, who coming up would shoot the Coon, which 
falling disabled would be worried by the dog, who 
thus has learned his part for future cooning, and 
thenceforth flushed with victory be even keener 
than his master for the chase. 

Yes, that was the plan; it had often worked 
before, and did so now, but for one mishap. Way- 
atcha did not climb a slender tree. As soon as 
he was far away, thanks to that fumbled chain, and I 

heard the raging of the two behind, he climbed 
the sort of tree that in his memory had been most 
a thing of safety to him. The big hollow maple 
was the haven of his youth, and up the biggest 
tree in all the woods he clambered now. D , 

His foes came on; the dog was learning fast, 
was sticking to the trail. His master followed 
till they reached the mighty sycamore, and " Here," ST* A 

said Howler, "we have treed him!" What the \i\ A 

half-breed said we need not hear. He had brought nOA^w 

his rifle, yes, but no axe. The Coon was safe in *S^J*S- *' 
some great cavernous limb, for nowhere could they 



!,. 



$> 






\ 



"Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccooa 

see nim, and the tree could not be climbed by man. 
The night came down and Pete with his yapping 
dog went home defeated. 

THE BLESSED HOLLOW TREE 

So luck was with Way-atcha, luck and the in- 
fluence of his early days, that built in with his 
nature the secret of his race: this is their true 
abiding place — the hollow tree. The slender 
'CVuNYit* second growth most often near is a temptation 
* and a snare, but the huge hollow trunk is a strong 
fortress and a sure salvation. 

Rested and keen was he, when the blackest 
hours came with a blessed silence; so forth he 
went and after many a "hark" and "spy" he swung 
himself to the ground in the big woods and gal- 
«J loped away and away, nor stopped to feed till 
I Afe V *J K Jfr f ne found himself far in the wide swamplands of 
'-dSV^tfj fiHTfi Rjm Wilder Creek, in the home of his early days and 
S$r JL^<f*fe^ the land of his kindred. 

-^ .** '**' A Coon coming back after months away is a 

3F" "$r **!* " stranger to his people. His form is forgotten or 

^ ' changed, his place is filled. Only one thing holds 

„ *& among this folk of smells, that is his smell, that was 

his passport, the proof that he was theirs, and 

slowly he "came back," not as the young of such a 

one, but as a tribal member in good standing, and 

116 




Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

with them ever learning, and teaching too, till the 

inner urge asserts itself and he breaks with the 

band, to cleave to a mate from the band. So they 

leave their kind, and seek, as their parents sought, 

some quiet spot where huge and hollow trunks hold 

yet the ground, where the precious land is made 

beautiful by its very worthlessness. And here, 

by the All-mother led, they raise their brood and 

teach a little more than they were taught, for times 

have changed. The leagues of big tall woods are 

gone, only the skimpy remnants by the water stay, 

only the useless trunks on the useless land, as 

ploughmen think. They give no harbor to the 

one-time forest kings, but lure the black-masked 

dweller of the hollow trunk, and wise is he with 

growing need for wisdom. He comes not forth by 

day; he goes not far by night. He runs the top of 

every fence, so leaves a broken trail. He lives on 

woodland creekside food. He shuns all clash with 

men. He never shows himself to them unless they 

chance to know his way. High in the noonday sun 

he lies at times to take the sunning that is balm for 

many an ill; and in the night, when the moon 

sinking, he may splash and forage by the swampy f € 

shores. There tracks of divers size next day give i ry rK ^;^ iJsT*\f\ 

record of the night prowl. But ye may not see him 5*9 "* 

unless by rare mischance; he is more alert than * < ^ 

"7 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

you, and ready to vanish in his hollow tree, for the 
world has many hunting dogs, with but one Roy. 
He knows you not, but he knows that there is many 
an Indian Pete. 

Ye long to meet and know him, oh, ye Kindly 
Singing Woodsmen! Ye guarantee respect, yea, 
reverence, for the Dryad of the hollow trees ! Would 
I might be your introducing guide! 

I have sought, sought lovingly, to meet him in the 
low, wet woods of Kilder Creek. Many times have 
I put tempting corn in forks and other altars as 
my offering to the Ringtail. And the corn is al- 
ways gone, I never know just how, but I see at 
divers times and trails the marks of that dexterous 
human-fingered paw, or the mussel shell with 
broken hinge, or the catfish fins, and know that still 
he dwells close by, that still he scoffs at bellowing 
hounds, nor has deep fear of any but the shameless 
axe that would steal his consecrated tree. What 
would I not give to have him let me see him as 
one sees a nearby Friend; but that is what he will 
not. All my privilege is this: to see the pattered 
pigmy human tracks when in the hours of morning 
sun I seek along the lake, or sometimes, when the 
autumn's night is black, I get the long-drawn roll- 
ing song, " Whill-ill-ill-a-loo, whill-illl-ill-a-loo, whill- 

118 



Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 

a-loo," the love song of Way-atcha the Ringtail 
Coon-Racoon that wanders still, makes love and 
lives, like the remaining prophet of a bygone simple 
faith, that being true, will some time come again 
to rule, but is waiting, hiding, waiting now, till the 
fire has passed away. 



% 



119 




IV 

Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

SILLY BILLY 

E WAS the biggest fool pup I ever 
saw, chuck full of life and spirits, 
always going at racing speed, 
generally into mischief; breaking 
his neck nearly over some small 
matter; breaking his heart if his 
master did not notice him, chewing up clothing, hats, 
and boots, digging up garden stuff that he could not 
eat, mistaking every leg of every chair and table for 
a lamp-post, going direct from wallow in the pigstye 
to frolic in the baby's cradle, getting kicked in the ribs 
by horses and tossed by cows, but still the same 
hilarious, rollicking, endlessly good-natured, ener- 
getic fool pup, and given by common consent the 
fit and lasting name of " Silly Billy." 

It was maddening to find on the first cold morn- 
ing that he had chewed up one's leather glove, but 
it was disarming to have that irrepressible, good- 
"3 <*V 



Jin <•'/' 'i 



Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

natured little idiot come wagging his whole latter 
end south of the short ribs, offering the remaining 
glove as much as to say that "one size was enough 
for any one." You had to forgive him, and it did 
not matter much whether you did or not, for the 
children adored him. Their baby arms were round 
his neck as much of the time as he could spare from 
his more engrossing duties, and, in a figurative sense, 
those protecting arms were around him all the time. 
As their father found out, when one day the puppy 
pulled down a piece of sacking that hung on the 
smokehouse pipe, upsetting the stove and burning 
up the smokehouse and all the dry meat in it. Bob 
Yancy was furious, his whole winter's meat stock 
gone. He took his shotgun and went forth deter- 
mined to put that fool dog forever out of mischief. 
But he met the unexpected. He found his victim 
with two baby arms about his fuzzy neck: little 
Ann Yancy was hugging her " doggie, " and what 
could he do? "It's my Billy! You shan't touch 
him! Go way, you naughty Daddy!" And the 
matter ended in a disastrous defeat for daddy. 

Every member of the family loved Silly Billy, 
but they wished from the bottom of their hearts 
that he might somehow, soon, develop at least a 
glimmer of common dog sense, for he was already 
past the time when with most bull terriers the irre- 

124 



Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

sponsible exuberance of puppyhood is ended. 
And though destined to a place among his master's 
hunting dogs, he, it was judged, was not yet ripe 
enough. 

Bob Yancy was a hunter, a professional — there 
are a few left — and his special line was killing Bears, 
Mountain Lions, Lynxes, Wolves, and other such 
things classed as " varmints" and for whose destruc- 
tion the state pays a bounty, and he was ever ready 
to increase the returns by " taking out" amateur 
hunters who paid him well for the privilege of being 
present. 

Much of this hunting was done on the high level 
of "the chase." The morning rally, the far cast 
for a trail, the warming hunt, the hot pursuit, and 
the finish with a more or less thrilling right. That 
was ideal. But it was seldom fully realized. The 
mountains were too rough. The game either ran 
off altogether, or, by crossing some impossible 
barrier, got rid of the hunters and then turned on 
the dogs to scatter them in flight. 

That was the reason for the huge Bear traps 
that were hanging in Yancy's barn. Those dread- 
ful things would not actually hold the Bear a pris- 
oner, but when with a convenient log they were 
gripped on his paw, they held him back so that the 
hunters, even on foot, could overtake the victim. 

125 




Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

The dogs, however, were the interesting part of 
the pursuit. Three kinds were needed: exquisite 
trailers whose noses could follow with sureness the 
oldest, coldest trail; swift runners for swift game, 
and intelligent fighters. The fighters had, of course, 
to be brave, but intelligence was more important, 
for the dogs are expected to nip at the bayed 
quarry from behind and spring back from his 
counter blow rather than to close at final grips. 

Thus there were bloodhounds and greyhounds as 
well as a bulldog in the Yancy pack, and of course, 
as always happens in a community of diverse bloods, 
there were some half-castes whose personal worth 
had given them social prestige, and was accepted 
as an offset to doubtful pedigree. Most of the 
pack had marked personality. There was Croaker, 
a small lady hound with an exquisite nose and a 
miserable little croak for a bay. You could not 
hear her fifty feet away, but fortunately Big Ben 
was madly in love with her; he followed her every- 
where and had a voice like the bell for which he was 
named. He always stuck close to Croaker and 
translated her feeble whispers into tones that all 
the world within a mile or two could understand. 

Then there was Old Thunder, a very old, very 
brave dog, with a fine nose. He was a combination 
of all good gifts and had been through many fights, 

126 






J 



\)ff5^3& 



.Mr 




(id 



Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

escaping destruction only thanks to the admirable 
sagacity that tempered his battle rage. Though 
slow and feeble now, he was the acknowledged 
leader of the pack, respected by dogs and men. 

THE PROFESSIONAL ROUGH 

The bulldog is more conspicuous for courage than 
discretion, so that the post of " bulldog to the pack " ^ „ • 

was often open. The last bulldog had been buried / , * 

with the bones of their last Grizzly. But YancyC^4^"tiw^'(L^ iN*-^ 
had secured a new one, a wonder. He was the ^ y.'^O^ 1 
final, finished, and perfect product of a long line of mj t 
fighting bulldogs kept by a famous breeder in an- 
other state. And when the new incumbent of the 
office arrived it was a large event to all the hunters. 
He was no disappointment: broad of head and 
chest, massive in the upper arm and hard in the 
flank, a little undershot perhaps, but a perfect beast 
of the largest size. Surly and savage beyond his 
kind, the hunters at Yancy's knew at once that 
they had a fighting treasure in the Terrible Turk. 

It was with some misgiving that he was turned 
loose on the ranch. He was so unpleasant in his 
manner. There was a distinct lack of dogginess 
about him in the gentle sense, and never did one of 
his race display a greater arrogance. He made no 
pretence of hiding his sense of contemptuous superi- 

127 






Billy, the Dog^ That Made Good 

ority, and the pack seemed to accept him at his owi 
value. Clearly they were afraid of him. He wa< 
given the right of way, avoided indeed by his future 
comrades. Only Silly Billy went bounding ir 
hilarious friendliness to meet the great one; and a 
moment later flew howling with pain to hide and 
whimper in the arms of his little mistress. Of course 
in a world of brawn, the hunters had to accept 
this from their prizefighter, and see in it a promise 
of mighty deeds to come in his own domain. 

In the two weeks that passed about the ranch the 
Terrible Turk had quarreUed with nearly every 
hound in the pack. There was only one indeed 
that he had not actually injured: that was Old 
Thunder. Once or twice they confronted each 
other, as when Thunder was gnawing a bone that 
the Turk seemed to want, but each time Thunder 
stood his ground and showed his teeth. There was 
a certain dignity about Thunder that even a dog 
will feel, and in this case, without any actual con- 
flict, the Terrible Turk retired, and the onlookers 
hoped that this argued for a kindly spirit they had 
not hitherto seen in him. 

October was glowing on the hills, and long un- 
wonted peeps of distant snowpeaks were showing 
themselves through thinning . treetops when word 
came that Old Reelfoot, a famous cattle-killing 
128 




Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

Grizzly, had reappeared in the Arrow-bell Cattle 

Range, and was up to his old tricks, destroying live ^^-^ 

stock in a perfect mania for destruction. There '" ^N-* 

was a big reward offered for the destruction of • o'T , \ 

Reelf oot, several times that held out for an ordinary wfcA il i 

Bear. Besides, there was really a measure of glory s ^ yw\ 1A / y\ 

attached to it, for every hunter in the country for *.^W v >j "^ uf 

several years back had tried to run Reelf oot* \ — *" '' — * *fe % * 

down, and tried in vain. y% "" ^> ti 

Bob Yancy was ablaze with hunter's fire when 
he heard the news. His only dread was that some 
rival might forestall him. It was a spirited pro- 
cession that left the Yancy Claim that morning, 
headed for the Arrow-bell Ranch; the motley 
pack straggling along or forging ahead till ordered 
back in line by the huntsman. There was the 
venerable Thunder staidly trotting by the heels 
of his old friend Midnight, Yancy's coal-black 
mare; and just before was the Terrible Turk with 
his red-rimmed eyes upturned at times to measure 
his nearness to the powerful black mare's hoofs. 
Big Ben was fast by Croaker, of course, and the 
usual social lines of the pack were all well drawn. 
Next was a packhorse laden with a huge steel 
Bear trap on each side, then followed packhorses 
with the camping outfit and other hunters, the 
cook, and the writer of this story. 

129 



Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

Everything was in fine shape for the hunt. 
Everything was fitly ordered and we were well 
^^^ yy away when a disconcerting element was tumbled 
*s-*f/ in among us. With many a yap of glee, there, 
- . /<^$f" u * , bounding, came that fool bull terrier, Silly Billy. 

j» *^L-^ * Like a June-bug among honeybees, like a crazy 

$^V Jv schoolboy in a council room, he rollicked and 

%k^ yapped, eager to be first, to be last, to take lib- 

erties with Thunder, to chase the Rabbits, to bay 
the Squirrels, ready for anything but what was 
wanted of him: to stay home and mind his own 
business. 

Bob might yell "Go home!" till he was hoarse. 
Silly Billy would only go off a little way and look 
hurt, then make up his mind that the boss was 
"only fooling" and didn't mean a word of it, and 
start in louder than ever. He steered clear of the 
Turk but otherwise occupied a place in all parts 
of the procession practically all the time. 

No one wished him to come, no one was willing 
to carry him back, there was no way of stopping 
him that little Ann would have sanctioned, so 
Silly Billy came, self-appointed, to a place on the 
first Bear hunt of the season. 

That afternoon they arrived at the Arrow-bell 
Ranch and the expert Bear-man was shown the 
latest kill, a fine heifer barely touched. The 

130 




Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

Grizzly would surely come back for his next meal. 
Yes, an ordinary Grizzly would, but Reelfoot was 
an extraordinary animal. Just because it was 
the Bear fashion to come again soon, he might not 
return for a week. Yancy set a huge trap by this 
"kill" but he also sought out the kill of a week 
gone by, five miles away, and set by that another 
gaping pair of grinning cast steel jaws. 

Then all retired to the hospitable ranch house, 
where Turk succeeded in mangling a light-weight 
sheep-dog and Silly Billy had to be rescued from 
a milky drowning in the churn. 

Who that knows the Grizzly will be surprised to 
hear that that night brought the hunters nothing, 
and the next was blank? But the third morning 
showed that the huge brute had come in craftiness 
to his older kill. 

I shall not forget the thrills of the time. We had 
passed the recent carcass near the ranch. It lay 
untouched and little changed. We rode on the 
five miles to the next. And before we were near 
we felt there was something doing, the dogs seemed 
pricked up, there was some sensation in the air. 
I could see nothing, but, while yet a hundred yards 
away, Bob was exulting, "A catch this time sure 
enough." 

Dogs and horses all were inspired. The Terrible 

131 



M641 HCtiAt. 




r^* 




Billy, the Dog: That Made Good 

Turk, realizing his importance, breasted his way to 
the front, and the rumbling in his chest was grand 
as an organ. Ahead, behind, and all around him, 
was Silly Billy yapping and tumbling. 

There was the carcass, rather "high" now but 
untouched. The place of the trap was vacant, 
log and all were gone; and all around were signs 
of an upset, many large tracks, so many that 
scarcely any were clear, but farther on we got the 
sign most sought, the thirteen-inch track of a 
monster Grizzly, and the bunch on the right paw 
stamped it as Reelfoot's trail. 

I had seen the joy blaze in Yancy's eye before, 
but never like now; he glowed with the hunter's 
heat, and let the dogs run free, and urged them on 
with whoops and yells of "Sic him, boys!" "Ho, 
boys!" "Sic him!" Not that much urging was 
needed, the dogs were possessed of the spirit of the 
day. This way and that they circled, each for 
himself. For the Bear had thrashed around a 
while before at length going off. It was Croaker 
that first had the real trail. Big Ben was there to 
let the whole world know, then Thunder indorsed 
the statement. Had it been Plunger that spoke 
the rest would have paid no heed, but all the pack 
knew Thunder's voice, and his judgment was not 
open to question. They left their devious different 

132 



Billy, the Dog- That Made Good 

tracks, and flocked behind the leader, baying deep 
and strong at every bound, while Turk came hurry- 
ing after and Silly Billy tried to make amends in 
noise for all he lacked in judgment. 

Intoxicating moments those for all the hunt. 
However civilized a man may be, such sounds and 
thoughts will tear to tatters all his cultured ways 
and show him up again a hunting beast. 

Away we went, the bawling pack our guides. 
Many a long detour we had to make to find a horse- 
man's road, for the country was a wilderness of 
rocky gullies, impenetrable thickets, and down 
timber, where fire and storm had joined to pile 
the mountain slope with one dead forest on another. 
But we kept on, and before an hour the dinning of 
the pack in a labyrinth of fallen trees announced 
the Bear at bay. 

No one who has not seen it can understand the 
feelings of that hour. The quick dismount, the 
tying of the nerve-tense horses, the dragging forth 
of guns, the swift creep forward, the vital ques- 
tions, "How is he caught? By one toe that will 
give, and set him free the moment that he charges, 
or firmly by one leg?" "Is he free to charge as 
far as he can hurl the log? or is he stalled in trees 
and helpless? " 

Creeping from trunk to trunk we went, and once 

133 



Billy, the Dog That Made Good 




the thought flashed up, " Which of us will come 
back alive?" Oh, what a din those dogs were 
making! Every one of them was in that chorus. 
Yapping and baying, high and low, swaying this 
way and that, which meant the Bear was charging 
back and forth, had still some measure of freedom. 

"Look out now! Don't get too close!" said 
Yancy. "Log and all, he can cover fifty feet 
while you make ten, and I tell you he won't bother 
about the dogs if he gets a chance at the men. He 
knows his game." 

THE FIERY FURNACE AND THE GOLD 

There were more thrills in the woods than the 
mere sounds or expectations accounted for. My 
hand trembled as I scrambled over the down tim- 
ber. It was a moment of fierce excitement as I 
lifted the last limbs, and got my first peep. But it 
was a disappointment. There was the pack, bound- 
ing, seething, yelling, and back of some brush was 
some brown fur, that was all. But suddenly the 
brushwood swayed and forth rushed a shaggy 
mountain of flesh, a tremendous Grizzly — I never 
knew one could look so big — and charged at his 
tormentors: they scattered like flies when one 
strikes at a gathered swarm. 

But the log on the trap caught on a stump and 




Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

held him, the dogs surged around, and now my view 
was clear. 

This is the moment of all in the hunt. This is 
the time when you gauge your hounds. This is 
the fiery furnace in which the metals all are tried. 
There was Old Thunder baying, tempting the Bear 
to charge, but ever with an eye to the safe retreat; 
there was Croaker doing her duty in a mere an- /^ 
nouncement; there were the greyhounds yapping *^ 
and nipping at his rear; there in the background, ^£ *T » i 

wisely waiting, reserving his power for the exact &^ ? j N — Jf 
proper time, was the Terrible Turk, and here and l^^k^ 

there, bounding, yapping, insanely busy, was Silly 4i ^W' 7*X 

Billy, dashing into the very jaws of death again |./^ ^ 

and again, but saved by his ever-restless activity, ***wj 1 
and proud of the bunch of Bear's wool in his teeth. tt&r 

Round and round they went, as Reelfoot made 
his short, furious charges, and ever Turk kept 
back, baying hoarsely, gloriously, but biding his 
time for the very moment. And whatever side 
Old Thunder took, there Turk went, too, and Yancy 
rejoiced, for that meant that the fighting dog had 
also good judgment and was not over-rash. 

The fighting and baying swung behind a little 
bush. I wanted to see it all and tried to get near, 
but Yancy shouted out, "Keep back!' , He knew 
the habits of the Bear, and the danger of coming 

135 



Billy, the Dog- That Made Good 

into range. But shouting to me attracted the 
notice of the Bear, and straight for Bob he charged. 
Many a time before had Yancy faced a Bear, and 
now he had his gun, but perched on a small and 
shaky rotten log he had no chance to shoot, and 
swinging for a clearer view, upraised his rifle with 
a jerk — an ill-starred jerk — for under it the rotten 
trunk cracked, crashed, went down, and Bob fell 
sprawling helpless in among the tumbled logs, 
and now the Grizzly had him in his power. "Thud," 
"crash" as the trap-log smote the trees that chanced 
between; and we were horror-held. We had no 
power to stop that certain death: we dared not 
fire, the dogs, the man himself, were right in line. 
The pack closed in. Their din was deafening; 
they sprang on the huge haired flanks, they nipped 
the soggy heels, they hauled and held, and did their 
best, but they were as flies on a badger or as rats 
on a landslide. They held him not a heart-beat, 
delayed him not a whit. The brushwood switched, 
the small logs cracked, as he rushed, and Bob 
would in a moment more be smashed with that 
fell paw, for now no human help was possible, 
when good old Thunder saw the only way — it 
meant sure death for him — but the only way. 
Ceased he all halfway dashing at the flank or heel 
and leaped at the great Bear's throat. But one 

136 



Billy, the Dog: That Made Good 

swift sweep of that great paw, and he went reeling 
back, bruised and shaken. Still he rallied, rushed 
as though he knew it all must turn on him, and 
would have closed once more, when Turk, the 
mighty warrior Turk, the hope and valor of the 
pack, long holding back, sprang forward now and 
fastened, gripped with all his strength — on the 
bear? No, shame of shames — how shall I say 
the truth? On poor old Thunder, wounded, bat- 
tered, winded, downed, seeking to save his master. 
On him the bulldog fastened with a grip of hate. 
This was what he waited for, this was the time 
of times that he took to vent his pent-up jealous 
rage — sprang from behind, dragged Thunder down 
to hold him gasping in the brushwood. The Bear 
had freedom now to wreak revenge; his only 
doughty foeman gone, what could prevent him? 
But from the reeling, spieling, yapping pack there 
sprung a small white dog, not for the monster's 
heel, not for his flank, or even for his massive 
shoulder forging on, but for his face, the only place 
where dog could count in such a sudden stound, 
gripped with an iron grip above the monster's 
eye, and the huge head jerking back made that 
small dog go flapping like a rag; but the dog hung 
*on. The Bear reared up to claw, and now we saw 
( . that desperate small white dog was Silly Billy, 



137 



*i 



i 









rJ\j 





Billy, the Dog: That Made Good 

none else, hanging on with all his might and 
weight. 

Bob scrambled to his feet, escaped! 

The huge brute seized the small white body in 
paws like stumps of trees, as a cat might seize a 
mouse he seized, and wrenched him quivering, 
yes, tore his own flesh wrenching, and hurled him 
like a bundle far aside, and wheeling for a moment 
paused to seek the bigger foe, the man. The pack 
recoiled. Four rifles rang, a long, deep, grating 
snort, and Reelfoot's elephantine bulk sank limp on 
the storm-tossed logs. Then Turk, the dastard 
traitor Turk, with chesty gurgle as a war-cry, closed 
bravely on the dead brute's haunch and fearlessly 
tore out the hair, as the pack sat lolling back, the 
battle done. 

Bob Yancy's face was set. He had seen it nearly 
all, and we supplied the rest. Billy was wagging 
his whole latter end, shaking and shivering with ex- 
citement, in spite of some red stained slashes on his 
ribs. Bob greeted him affectionately: "You 
Dandy. It's the finish that shows up the stuff a 
Bear-dog is made of, an' I tell you there ain't any- 
thing too good in Yancy's Ranch for you. Good 
old Thunder has saved my life before, but this is a 
new one. I never thought you'd show up this 
way." 

138 



Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

"And you," he said to the Turk, "I've just two 
words for you: ' Come here !'" He took off his belt, / 
put it through the collar of the Terrible Turk, led / -, ^\ 
him to one side. I turned my head away. A>^j-£i 
rifle cracked, and when at length I looked Yancy 
was kicking leaves and rubbish over some carrion 
that one time was a big strong bulldog. Tried in 
the fire and found wanting, a bully, a coward, a 
thing not fit to live. 

But heading all on the front of Yancy's saddle 
in the triumphal procession homeward was Billy, 
the hero of the day, his white coat stained with red. 
His body was stiff and sore, but his exuberant spirits 
were little abated. He probably did not fully 
understand the feelings he had aroused in others, 
but he did know that he was having a glorioui 
time, and that at last the world was responding to 
the love he had so bounteously squandered on it. 

Riding in a pannier on a packhorse was Old 
Thunder. It was weeks before he got over the 
combined mauling he got from the Bear and the 
bulldog, and he was soon afterward put in honor- 
able retirement, for he was full of years. 

Billy was all right again in a month, and when 
half a year later he had shed his puppy ways, his 
good dog sense came forth in strength. Brave as a 
Lion he had proved himself, full of life and energy, 

*39 




Billy, the Dog That Made Good 

affectionate, true as steel, and within two years he 
was leader of the Yancy pack. They do not call 
him " Silly" now, but "BiUy, the pup that made 
good." 







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